


Don't Stop Believing

by Michelleleahhh



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Pretty Woman Fusion, CEO!Peeta, F/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-11 16:13:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2074656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michelleleahhh/pseuds/Michelleleahhh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katniss stands up, juts her hip out, and looks around. She hates tourists, with their money, with their leisure. She hates that they can take what they want and use whoever they want. She hates being taken advantage of, and she won't let this Abercrombie model use her from his Aston Martin. She may be a prostitute, but she's no pushover. So, if Peeta wanted directions instead of her, he'd have to pay.<br/>
Based off of Pretty Woman.</p>
<p>Banner by the ever talented and superb Ro Nordmann</p>
<p><img/> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pretty Woman

**Author's Note:**

> No Copyright Infringement Intended:
> 
> The theme of this story will be all the classic 80s jams, inspired by Pretty Woman, staring Julia Roberts and Richard Gere. One of my favorite RomComs.
> 
> You'll notice some of the lines are the same as the films, it's because they're classics, but this is the only chapter so far that I've written that has the same quotes.
> 
> I hope you enjoy. I also don't have a beta, so any mistakes I make are mine and mine alone.

 

 

* * *

 

**Pretty Woman, walking down the street.**

 

"So… Fuck, Kill, Marry."

 

With a smack of her gum, Madelyn Undersee continues, "George Clooney, Anderson Cooper, or…" She pauses staring at her screwed-up reflection in the old mirror, "Shit. Who's that really hot guy? He's in that movie about the boat. He's old," she details, smacking her tootsie bubble gum and fighting to keep the towel straitened under her arms.

 

"Peter O'Toole," Katniss guesses, while flipping through her ancient copy of Forbes.

 

She makes a face, "Ew no. Ugh. You know him, he was Gatsby."

 

But Katniss is completely and 100% uninterested.  _Fuck, Kill, Marry_ , what is she twelve? "Snap it out," the brunette suggests not looking up from her daily reading as she waits for her barely damp hair to dry.

 

Madge continuously snaps the air and her gum, much to Katniss' annoyance. It takes a full minute and twenty-six seconds for Madge to think, her fingertips burning from the constant motions. "Robert Redford!" She exclaims clapping her hands with a giddy smile.

 

"So George Clooney, Anderson Cooper, and... Robert Redford," Katniss repeats, dropping her magazine onto her poorly kept bed. "Well Anderson Cooper's gay, would he be gay in this situation?"

 

"Depends if your comfortable with taking it in the ass."

 

"Hmm, ok, well," Katniss thinks for a minute, different scenario's flopping through her head. "Would George Clooney actually settle down?"

 

"Jesus Christ, Katniss, it's a fucking game. Perfect world, perfect situation."

 

"Fine," she huffs. "Marry Cooper, fuck Clooney, and kill Redford. Only because I'm not sure what he looks like."

 

"Preach!" Madge cheers, pumping her fist in the air. "Ok your turn! Be inventive, that was my old foxes category."

 

Katniss looks around their shared Los Angeles apartment, searching for innovation. She eyes their collection of wigs hanging on the opposite side of the wall. Bald men! She'll do bald men: Bruce Willis…

 

Bruce Willis….

 

… Ok. Fuck that.

 

Their apartment is nothing special. It's run down, in the bad area of town, and located on the top floor. She's six stories up and resides next to a crack dealer. Or at least that's what Katniss suspects from the revolving front door of poor, mixed race miscreants with sunken cheeks and missing teeth. Nothing welcomes Katniss home like the average drug dealer.

 

The apartment's red walls are chipped, there are no curtains on the windows, and the only way to tell the difference from Katniss' and Madge's rooms is a cracked folded screen they scored from the dumpster behind Pier 1. It wasn't much, but it was home. A home that still isn't inspiring Katniss with a good round of Fuck, Kill, Marry.

 

The room's walls are donned with makeup stains. The floor has crumpled clothes and magazines. Magazine! Celebrities! She already knows what Madge would sarcastically say, 'How original Katniss,' or 'You suck at this.'

 

"Any day now," Madge sings, brushing her blonde hair in the old, fogged mirror.

 

Katniss sends a glare her way. If she were a magician, daggers would be surrounding Madge's delicate, shiny little head. The type of head that was so different from her own.

 

The two couldn't be more different. Madge is blonde, perky, blue eyed, and pale; she has beautiful pink porcelain skin that looks as young as her six-year-old step sister, Madge's skin doesn't look as used as she is. Instead, she looks like the typical teen cheerleader, Quinn Fabray and all.

 

Katniss is the complete opposite. Her deep olive skin is marred with a dark, single lined, angry scar that cuts on the underside of her chin to the dip below her plump and perpetually scowling lips. When she was younger, Katniss' mother told her that she had gypsy blood in her, and throughout her dysfunctional childhood, she pretended she was Esmerelda. Just so she could brag, she'd wear long skirts and prance around barefoot. She even played the tambourine in band at Panem South High School (before she sucked off the band teacher, Mr. Cray, at fourteen).

 

Katniss catches her reflection in the mirror and realizes how unlike Esmerelda she looks now. Now, she's just angry, all the time, and years of a starving and stressful environment, left her body frail. It's been three months since she had to forego food for other necessities, but her body was just beginning to recover. If she could she'd go back and transform herself to Esmerelda, perhaps go to Disney and become a princess; that's the dream for everyone right?

 

DISNEY CHARACTERS!

 

That's new, innovative - and... creepy. Katniss knows it's creepy.

 

As she scowls at Madge's impatience, she looks down at her faded green bed comforter and stares at her folded Forbes magazine - BILLIONAIRES. She could do that.

 

Ok, Bill Gates, Warren Buffet, two easy ones right there. Katniss flips quickly through her copy of Forbes 100 Richest People Alive from 2010.

 

She quickly flipped through the pages scanning, haphazardly, she played the finger game, wherever her moving finger landed that would be the mark. She closed her eyes, moved her finger, and... voilá!

 

Mellark. She could work with him.

 

"Ok." Katniss' voice gives away her excitement and Madge twirls around to look at her. "Fuck, Kill, Marry: Bill Gates, Warren Buffet, or, drum roll please, Leavened Mellark."

 

Madge's mouth drops.

 

"What. The  _actual._  Fuck? Who is Leavened Mellark? Is this category old men who are _not_ good looking? Jesus, you're the worst."

 

Instantly defensive, Katniss argues, "It's billionaires."

 

"Oh my god, throw that out. I bet you half those men are dead." Madge jokes flippantly then sneaks a side glance over at her. "What's Leavened look like?"

 

Katniss shrugs, "There's only a name. His net-worth is 12.4 bill though. He's number 89."

 

"Google him."

 

If Katniss had a dollar for every time Madge told her to google something, she would be a billionaire. And technically, this would be the first time Katniss  _could_  google someone. Madge just gave Katniss her old iPhone and, while it had a crack on the front screen, it's one of the nicest things Katniss has ever owned.

 

"My phone's charging."

 

It isn't charging, Katniss just can't afford a data plan yet, she's saving up. All she really needs it for is to call the only number saved in her phone book.

 

Madge shrugs her petite, bare shoulders and walks to use her new iPhone, sent from Daddy Undersee to buy his lost daughter's love. After three painful minutes, Madge sighs, "He's dead." Katniss frowns, he was only 56 in 2010.

 

Maybe it  _is_  time for Katniss to get rid of this magazine. But, it's sentimental to her.

 

It was the first thing she bought when she got to LA with big dreams to one day land on this very list. The dreams faded quickly though, her failure was not something she dwells on. And if Katniss got rid of this magazine, her bible, her failure would be all too real. One more month. Just one more month then she'll pack it up, throw it out, and go back home.

 

"I'll pretend it's 2010 for you, cause he's kinda hot." Madge carelessly tosses her phone to her bed, where it lands with a thunk. She sighs, "Ok, so I'll marry Leavened, 'cause he's sexy and kinda looks like my ex's dad. Killin' Buffet, 'cause he's old an, and I'll fuck Gates." Madge drops her towel and walks to her dresser and pulls out an outfit. "Can you imagine being worth 12 billion dollars? Like Jesus."

 

"No, I can't," Katniss stares at Mellark's name in slight mourning, tracing her finger over her only kin to him. In the end, the money didn't even help the old bastard; her estranged Grammie, a solid 98 was still kicking it and couldn't be worth more than 40 grand. Money don't stop death.

 

"Where do you think the money went?" Madge calls over her shoulder, pulling on fishnet stalkings over her creamy thighs.

 

"Probably to his poor, widowed wife," Katniss throws the magazine back down on her bed and stands up. She moves to the mirror, while fluidly braiding her hair. By the time she gets to her reflection, the braid is already complete. But she doesn't need the mirror for her braid, no she needs it to study her reflection and check the bags under her eyes. God, she looks nothing like Esmerelda.

 

"Hmmm Leavened Mellark." Madge looks through her phone, quickly going to his wikipedia page. "Leavened Mellark, married to one Stella McCormick Mellark," she scrolls down to death and family aftermath. Quickly, she scans the short paragraph, learning all about Leavened Mellark, his three sons, and his Stella. "According to wikipedia, Leavened left his fortune to his sons. Oh wow," Madge breaths.

 

"What?" Katniss asks, tying her braid to a flat bun on her head and pulling on a wig that faded from black routes to blonde ends. It was short, ending just below her chin, framing her face. Rock Chic, that's what she was going for tonight.

 

"His sons are stone cold foxes." Madge fans herself exaggeratedly while wiggling her eyebrows in Katniss' direction. "Well at least an Aish Mellark is."

 

"Let me see," Katniss says pinning her wig into her head.

 

Madge walks over, finally taking in her roommate's ombre hair. "Nice Everdeen, I'd fuck you," she winks, thrusting her phone to Katniss' waiting hands.

 

There are no pictures or pages dedicated to any of the sons, only a picture of Aish at a conference. He  _is_  hot. With blonde hair and blue eyes, and boney fe-

 

"Gale just sent you a dick pic," Katniss puffs handing the phone back to Madge, while slowly turning on her heel to walk to her side of the room, picking up her outfit from the stained carpet. Tonight, she'll bag a rich one. She prays, hopes. She has bills to pay and cash to send home. She needs the money. Prim needs the money.

 

Madge giggles from her side of the room, "Ooooooh, he manscaped."

 

* * *

 

**Pretty Woman, the Kind I like to Meet.**

 

Cops are everywhere these days. It pisses the girls off to no end. Not just Madge and Katniss, but the other girls too. It's getting harder and harder to work the streets, just another reason to quit, and Katniss tucks that away in the back of her mind. But she knows, this isn't a lifestyle so easily given up, so easily traded in for normalcy. Her lips turn down at the thought. She may never get out.

 

Before the girls walk to their corner, they stop for a drink at the Hob. A ritual to take the edge off their impending night.

 

Madge, with her perky little tits hanging out of her red dress, saunters over to the bar, smirking at the people that surrounded them. They are regulars. She presses herself to the cool shelf leaning over trying to get the bartender, Darius Rose's, attention. Katniss trails behind her of course, strutting in her chunky heels and unknowingly turning the heads of many balding men in the bar. Black skirt snugly slung across her hips

 

After Darius passed them, not once- but twice, Madge calls out to him slamming her palm on the bar. "Hey, Darius, can I get some damn service over here?" Sure, it's busy, a lot of people coming in at this time of night. Nine-thirty brought all lonely men and women out, the shows had just ended, and people needed somewhere to go.

 

When Darius doesn't turn or even acknowledge the girls, Katniss leans over the bar, stealing two glasses and the first bottle she touches. Absolute Vodka. When Darius opens his mouth to tell the girls off, Katniss yells over the music, "Just put it on our tab."

 

She turns from the bar and looks to Madge, pointing to the bowl of nuts to their left, "Steal those nuts. I didn't eat."

 

The girls make their way through the cramped, smokey bar and over to a corner table nestled in a warm glow from the light overhead. With the nuts between them, Katniss fills both their tumblr glasses to the brink. She settles the bottle down, with a smack. She grins. They both reach for their glasses.

 

Clutch. Clink. Chug.

 

Katniss gets half way through her glass in one chug. Madge doesn't get as far, her phone chirps, distracting her from her glass of vodka.

 

"Gale won't leave me alone."

 

Katniss doesn't respond, she never does in these kinds of conversations. All Madge wants to do is complain, drone on and on about Gale and his smothering tendencies. Katniss knows her roommate, like the back of her scarred, lined hands. But Gale makes Madge feel wanted, for free; so... Madge makes him feel good for free. Katniss takes another sip of her clear poison, cringing only slightly at the warm liquid.

 

When she refocuses her attention on Madge, she notices that her friend is giving her a look, obviously waiting for Katniss' advice on something she just said.

 

Katniss puts her glass back down on the table, "What?"

 

"Do you think I should tell him?" Madge asks, leaning her elbows on the table.

 

"Tell him…" Katniss bores her silver eyes into Madge's crisp blue ones.

 

"That I'm a hooker. It's not like its nothin' to be ashamed about."

 

To Katniss it is. But she can never tell Madge that. If she does Madge would tell her that there are worse things, like no job or money. Living on the streets, which is exactly what Katniss did after she sold her flatbread truck after being jobless in LA for a month.

 

When Madge found her, Katniss was alone, starved to skeletal measures, and about to work for a Pappi Brutus, but Madge saved her.

 

" _We work for no one_ ," that's what she said to the starving girl after shrugging a beat up, peach nylon jacket around her shoulders.

 

Katniss slowly got the hang of it, earning money for giving others pleasure, and soon enough she could pay rent. Then she was able to send some cash home, buy some clothes, wigs, you name it she could suddenly get it. She sent money to Prim after that first month. She wasn't rich, by any means, but she could get a few hundred a week. Some nights, there wasn't work. But Katniss got good at roping them in, she could read a lonely man from a mile away.

 

Katniss slowly takes another sip to form her thoughts, "You could tell him if you want."

 

"Yeah," Madge said nodding, "I think I might," she smiles taking three large gulps.

 

Katniss reaches for the bottle, to top both their glasses off, when a tall looming shadow appears over them, and snatches the bottle from the table.

 

"Hey!" She states, nimbly grasping the glass bottle from the thick hands.

 

"We talked about this," Darius sighs, tightening his hold on the bottle. "You guys know I could lose my license for letting y'all do this."

 

"Well, if you had good customer service maybe we wouldn't do it," Madge argues her lips pulled back into a seductive smile, which she hides as she sips her glass. She dangles the bait in front of him, egging him on, Madge's favorite game to play with him. She riles him, much like Gale, only Darius gets rather flustered at her advances while Gale just turns into a cave man.

 

Darius doesn't take the bait. He stands tall. Madge straitens, pondering a second idea.

 

"Can you at least top off our glasses?" Madge bites her bottom lip, giving him her smoldering 'look'.

 

Darius peers down at them, tugging his hands through his red hair. "You guys owe me like a thousand bucks as is."

 

Katniss rolls her eyes. For someone who owns a bar, Darius has no obvious math skills, she knows they owe at least two grand. But instead of voicing her opinion, she reaches for the nut bowl and stuffs her mouth, her stomach growling from its emptiness.

 

"No fockin' way," Madge's draw drops, her New York accent slipping out as she stares at Darius in disbelief. Katniss smirks, between her bites, and swallows thickly not tasting as the peanuts go down.

 

Darius bobs his head, "This is your fourth bottle this month."

 

"So?" Madge asks, obviously annoyed.

 

" _So_ ," Darius stresses, "It's only the tenth."

 

The two girls look at each other, smirking. They know exactly how to work with Darius, his kind, sweet personality is no match for either devious women.

 

So, Katniss clears her throat, joining the conversation, "Well, you can't really count that bottle. You're taking it away from us."

 

"Yeah." Madge agrees, giggling, acting her part. "Listen, if it's such a big deal for you, maybe we could work something out. A payment plan, or something." She takes her freshly painted nails and traces them down Darius' forum, leaving chills in her wake. Darius swallows hard, before briskly shifting his forearm and, much to the girls' dismay, the bottle out of reach.

 

"I-I," Darius stutters at Madge's implied payment, looking between the two girls who have matching smiles on their faces.

 

"Oh, look at the time," Katniss feigns, interrupting the red-head and peering off at an imaginary clock on the wall.

 

"Ya, we gotta go," Madge agrees, finishing hers and Katniss' tumbler. "Let's talk tomorrow about the payment plans, ya?"

 

The two slither out of their seats and head for the door, horribly holding back their snickers.

 

"Maybe we should suck the kids dick, ya know. For thanks," Madge giggles, holding a hand over her mouth.

 

"That's all you," Katniss rolls her eyes, making her way through the door. "But in all seriousness, we should start going to another bar."

 

"Darius would cry without us; his two favorite girls. Who would he eye fondle?"

 

Katniss snorts.

 

The two walk outside, engulfed in a mass of tourists and locals alike. It's a short walk, even with the sweltering June air, from the bustling Highland Ave to their corner, right in front of the sketchy North Las Palmas. Prime real estate.

 

Only, when the two got there, their typically empty spots were taken by two rival workers, Enobaria and Cashmere. In their late thirties, the girls have turned to the pimp known as Snow for protection.

 

Katniss met Snow once, he pimped half the girls on Hollywood and Sunset Boulevard. He was old, with silver hair and a blotched, wrinkled face.

 

It was a spring Thursday night, surprisingly frigid for LA, Madge landed herself a faceless guy. Katniss left empty handed, so to speak. When she turned around, finally understanding that she had no takers, she came face to face with someone much colder than the April night.

 

"What a lovely necklace," Snow murmured grazing his long, paper-like fingers on the pendant that swung from Katniss' thin neck.

 

Her mind told her to be polite. Be respectful. Remember her place. "Thank you."

 

"Where ever did you get it."

 

Katniss gulped, taking a step back, unable to control the weight of his intense glare. "New York," she bit out.

 

Snow smiled, grinned menacingly, "I have friends there if you ever want a matching bracelet."

 

He wanted her. That much Katniss understood. He smelled of overly perfumed roses, which he kept mounted on his white suite's lapel. It contrasted his eyes and lips which were both stained a blood red, something, when she asked around, Katniss heard it was his intimidation tactic to other pimps. Thats what the streets whispered when his back was turned.

 

"No, thank you."

 

"Pity," he whispered turning his dark gaze to an older women over Katniss' shoulders, who too couldn't find any work. She was his. Katniss took this, his focus on the other woman, as a signal. Dismissed. She trudged away, quickly, leaving the older women to fend for herself.

 

The next morning, Wiress was found dead. One gun shot to the head.

 

She was dismissed too.

 

Similar to that woman, his workers are older, that's how he gets them. When they're aged and worn in, down on their money and luck; his are well groomed in the streets. And they're all addicted to their own kind of poison, whether it's heroin or white liquor. Just like Enorbaria and Cashmere.

 

Enorbaria and Cashmere. The girls' names are as fake as they look, one with a pink wig offsetting her dark skin and the other's natural blonde hair was tainted red. Their faces are caked with makeup to hide their ages. A sympathy not even Madge has for them.

 

"What do you bitches think your doing here?" Madge heatedly asks, standing in front of Enobaria, a mere inches from the girl's painted face.

 

"Snow put us here," Enorbaria explains with an annoyed edge to her voice.

 

"Well that sucks don't it. Get steppin," Madge rises her eyebrows and gathering her small stature to full height, even though the other girl looms over her.

 

Cashmere scoffs at Madge, and Katniss steps in, ready to defend, while pulling her lips back to reveal her teeth. "Seniority bitch," Katniss hisses. "Madge's been here for a year, get your own spot."

 

Cashmere steps closer, pushing her face close Katniss, so close Katniss can smell the cigarette smoke lingering on her breath. She raises her arms ready to push the girl, ready to-

 

"What you bitches think your doing?" A dark haired girl with short spiky hair calls from her spot, "You girls know that's Kat's and Madge's stars. Get your old asses down to Sunset. That's where you belong, fuckers."

 

Madge tilts her head, ready to start something. Her and Enobaria stare at each other for what seems like hours, the seconds slowly trickle by.

 

Enobaria gets closer, then takes a step back. "Whatever, your not worth it," she backs away turning on her ratty ass pumps. Cashmere follows, her hands in the air, not ready to start a fight without her friend's help, though she's sure she could take Katniss.

 

"Yeah, we own Brooks to Diaz." Madge yells after them, like a territorial Golden Retriever, she then looks at Katniss, "God, who does Snow think he is, sending them over here. I have a mind to-"

 

"Don't you dare," Katniss cuts her off.

 

Katniss goes to wave to Johanna, give her thanks, but the brunette only gives her the finger and yells from where she's standing. "Hey Brainless One and Two. Get your shit together or y'all should get steppin to Sunset too. I got work to do."

 

Then, as if planned, a Nissan appears in front of Jo, ready to whisk the practically naked woman away. Katniss wishes she had the balls to dress like Jo, but the last shred of her pride wouldn't let her. She looked like a Mormon next to the other girl's nipple tassels and booty shorts.

* * *

 

**I don't believe you, you're not the truth.**

 

It takes two hours, two dismal hours, the clock strikes twelve, and Madge wants call it a night. She's tired, and her feet are pounding from breaking in her new stilettos.

 

Katniss won't, can't leave. She has too much pent up energy, at least that's what she says to Madge. She knows there are overdue bills, at home for Prim and here for the two of them. And goddammit, she wants to be able to google on her phone, so Katniss Everdeen is resolved to stick out the night, at least until 3:59 am.

 

She paces their stars, antsy for a job, as Madge stands in one spot, twirling her crimped blonde hair. She counts each of the cement stars, there's five, and she steps her black heels on their names, hiking her skirt higher and thrusting her chest out.

 

Cameron Diaz, step.

 

Sylvester Stallone, swank.

 

Diana Ross, stride.

 

Dolly Parton, strut.

 

Mel Brooks... turn around and walk back.

 

She will find work. She will find work. That's the only mantra Katniss knows right now. She will find work.

 

She turns to Madge, "Maybe we should find a pimp."

 

"So he can take our money and tell us who and who not to fuck? We work for no one, Kat. You know that." Madge explains, pulling her gum with her finger and snapping it back to her mouth. The blonde eyes moved to her roommate ready to say her goodbyes, it's late, and she just wants some cuddling with Gale, when a rented silver car pulls up to their corner.

 

Just ten feet from where Katniss stands. Katniss knows cars, and she knows this is an Aston Martin, 560 horsepower, over 250 grand. She dies inside. Dies and floats up to hooker heaven.

 

"Get it mami," Madge cat calls, but Katniss swings her head to her friend, it is so close, but Katniss is rooted in her spot like a young fawn in the bright headlights.

 

Madge thrusts her eyebrows into the air and rushes over, "You look like the four Fs, fabulous, fresh, and fucking fuckable." Katniss cracks a smile, "Take $200 for the night, he screams money." Madge delicately ran her hands over Katniss' arms, then reached up and pecked her on the lips, "Now go get it," with a swat on her bum Katniss maneuvers towards the silver car, but her limbs and mind are disjointed. She steps on Parton, Parton doesn't tread slowly, no she swings her hips and struts.

 

Parton, be Parton. Be  _the_  Parton. Katniss struts to the Aston Martin and inside it finds a blonde haired man hitting a phone with a black screen.

 

She faintly hears Madge exclaim, "Be safe! Use condoms!"

 

Katniss clears her throat and taps on the window. The man looks up, with a look of confusion etched across his ash eyebrows, as if he wasn't expecting anyone to knock on the window. He reaches for the tan window button, taps it, and the window folds down. God, the car even smells beautifully.

 

"Um, can I help you?" His voice is smooth, very smooth, like velvet. Katniss notes the honeyed tone with a sly smirk gracing her bright red colored lips.

 

"Depends if your feeling lonely tonight, big boy."

 

The man chuckles shaking his head, "No, thank you. Your beautiful- I mean, sorry-" He regains his posture, runs his hands down his tie and concludes with an authoritative "No."

 

Katniss scowls, ready to turn from the car. But the man halts her, telling her to stop. She spins around and rests her elbows on the window, she leans in her head in. She turns on her slinkiness, her body folding, her arms making her usually small breasts seem a tenfold bigger.

 

The man scratches his head. "Look, my phone just died, and I can't figure out this GPS system. Can you just give me directions to Beverly Hills?"

 

Katniss stands up, juts her hip out, and looks around. She hates tourists, with their money, with their leisure. She hates that they can just go wherever they want and use anything to get what they want. She hates being taken advantage of, and she won't let this Abercrombie model use her from his Aston Martin. She may be a prostitute, but she's no pushover.

 

"Twenty bucks."

 

"Seriously?"

 

"Girl's gotta eat." She punctuates her T's for affect.

 

The blonde haired man groans and lays his head back on the sleek, leather head rest. Katniss takes advantage, unlocks the door from inside, and tumbles in after her heel catches on the side walk. But he didn't notice, his eyes closed and focused on shaking his head.

 

"Make it forty and I'll take you there myself." He finally looks at her, and he's startled to find her sitting in his car, close to his face.

 

She's aware of the way he stares at her legs, she knows they look good: tan, toned, endless, adorned with sexy fishnet stalkings. She smiles at him, as he clears his throat, finally meeting her eyes. "Have change for a fifty?"

 

"Sorry, didn't I mention there was a hospitality and tourist charge? Go strait." She negotiates, points her hand towards the road and buckles her seatbelt.

 

"I -uh-yeah." He nods, moving his car into drive.

 

 

* * *

**No one could look as good as you.**

 

Peeta Mellark's day has been hell. His flight was delayed, and he had coffee spilled on him by an overly enthused flight attendant. Once he landed, his lawyer regretted to inform him by telephone that the Hampton's house went to his newly ex wife.

 

"Don't worry," he rushed over the phone, "you got the Manhattan apartment." Indeed no worries, Craveth, Swaine & Moore LLP.

 

He needed a new lawyer.

 

He then found out, after spending three hours on a conference call from Hong Kong and London that stock revenue for the month of June was down. Mellark & Co. needed a miracle, and the only way to save that miracle would be to expand his shoppe across seas and confirm the deal with Californian Farmers Union. Sure, Kansas has the most wheat production, but they used mostly GMO products, and Peeta is hell bent on changing Mellark's image. No GMO. No Preservatives. Kinda Whole Foods like, but cheap.

 

And California has good land for organic wheat. All he needs to do is buy up the land.

 

So Peeta Mellark decided months ago to visit California in June when the CFU president was in town for a convention. Peeta had it all planned out; he'd persuade said president, one Alma Coin, to sell him mass amounts land to grow his product with his charm and ruthless wit.

 

Only, Alma Coin has refused time and time again to meet him. After endless phone calls with her assistant, he learned the only way to meet Coin, would be to attend the annual Masked Gala at the Hyatt Century Plaza. It took less than an hour after for Peeta to haggle for two overly priced tickets. Two tickets, and one CEO.

 

His assistant, Seneca, could have been a valuable asset to the gala, only his beard and overall demeanor is just eerie. Peeta also doesn't want any of the CFU thinking negatively on "Mellark's." Image is everything. If he brings his assistant, who also happens to be a man, he knows rumors would spread like wild fire and leave his business in an even worse situation. He could read the Forbes article already.

 

Peeta Mellark, Heir of Mellark Fortune Leaves Wife for Male Assistant.

 

After a heated discussion figuring out what to do with the second ticket, Seneca decided it was a perfect time to tell him all about the beautiful woman he could set his boss up with. One thing Peeta didn't need today, after coffee spills and conference calls was a date set up by his freak assistant, who's only reason for still having a job was his way of making everything happen. Like the two tickets to the Gala.

 

And Now.

 

Now, there is a prostitute sitting in his rented Aston Martin Vanquish, that he can't even figure out to drive. It was pushed on him, like this cheap prostitute, by the women at the rental company. If only cars could drive themselves. He should donate money to google's driverless car prototypes. That would solve every problem.

 

He thought the girl was being sarcastic when she said it was twenty for directions, but apparently Californians don't do sarcasm like New York does. And Peeta was too tired and drawn to fight with the prostitute. Fifty bucks, personal directions, and she'd be gone.

 

"Nice car!" She enthuses with animated features, running her hands up and down the maroon leather interior.

 

"Thanks, I'll tell the rental company you approve." A hooker approves. Great. She's going to steal him blind. It's fine, he only has the fifty on him anyway.

 

The girl doesn't really listen though, she's too fixated on feeling the leather beneath her hands. Rippled, and smooth, and so many adjectives that she can't think of because she's caught in the moment. And maybe, just maybe, because she dropped out of school; English was probably never her subject.

 

"May I ask your name?"

 

She pulls her colored lips back, moving in her seat to face him. "What you want it to be, handsome?" At Peeta's humorless look, and his plaintive stare, she sits up straiter. "Kat."

 

"Pleasure to meet you Kat."

 

Kat looks up, taking in her surroundings. "Get in the right lane," she suggests, when she realizes Peeta's poor driving skills. Peeta moseys through the traffic, not used to driving in a parking lot of moving cars that cut him off at any chance. In fact, Peeta's not use to driving, period.

 

And doesn't know what noises cars make, and what noises they don't. So when he doesn't switch his gears, and the car makes a grumbling roar at improper use, he think's thats just perfectly normal. Third gear is the perfect gear. Third gear is totally, absolutely, one hundred percent fine with Peeta Mellark.

 

Kat doesn't agree.

 

"So you like third gear?"

 

"Huh?" She nods her head to the stick in between the two. "Oh," he laughs uncomfortably, "I don't know how to actually drive shift, I guess it's just all they had," Peeta grimaces.

 

"Well, you should downshift to second, we're in congested traffic."

 

"You know how to drive stick?"

 

"Yeah, my cousins at home are typical hick car enthusiasts. No person should drive unless they know stick." Kat points to the red light ahead, "Turn right, here."

 

Peeta swings the car around, "Where's uh" he fiddles with his shifting, for some reason trying to downshift and unsurprisingly failing, "Where's this hick home?"

 

"Panem, Pennsylvania."

 

Panem, Pennsylvania, located just off 79, a hard hour north of Pittsburgh. Blue collar, small town living. The complete opposite of California - and Los Angeles. Pretty decent farming conditions, but too close to the Pennsylvania coal minds to have good, reliable products.

 

Peeta nods his head, searching for Panem on the imagined map in his photogenic head. "So, have you ever actually driven a car like this?"

 

"An Aston?" At his nod, she laughs, "Only in my dreams."

 

Peeta swings pulls over to the shoulder, "Well, you're driving."

 

She cringes when the engine makes that uncomfortable grumbling noise again. Her attention is so focused on caring for this once in a lifetime car that she doesn't realize he has gotten out of it and moved beside her, opening her door.

 

She looks up at him plaintively, "What?"

 

"You're driving."

 

She scoffs, "You need to work on your comedic timing."

 

He chuckles, reaffirms that she will be driving, and moves to let her out of the door. Only she doesn't get out, instead she smirks at him. His eyes bug out of his head as she hitches her hands on the center console and pulls herself over the seat, giving him the perfect view of under her skirt. He catches a glimpse, a small peek at her lacy underthings, before seeing the smirking glint in her eyes and pulls himself to look away.

 

He tightens his jaw and slightly shakes his head, unbelieving that this woman just gave him a preview for what was for sale to the highest buyer. And even, a little bit ashamed withhimself, and the growing desire he had for her.

 

There was just something about her eyes.

 

When he plops back in Kat smiles lightly at him and throws the car into gear.

 

"Buckle up, I'm going to show you how to make this baby purr."

 

* * *

**Won't you pardon me?**

 

Rule Number One: Never let any customer know your real name.

 

That's something Katniss learned the hard way from a customer of hers, after he waited for her on the corner. After he asked around for her. After he showed up at Madge's and her's apartment.

 

He was young, with seemingly kind features. And even with his All-American looks, he was more menacing than any of her customers. The way he waited outside his building for her. The way he would say her name, "Kat-nissss" sounding almost like a snake. The way he used his strength to control her and distort his own delusions.

 

From that experience forward, Katniss never used her real name again.

 

As two months crawled by, Katniss became good at sorting out the customers like Cato and the kind, awkward ones like Darius.

 

Peeta doesn't seem like a rough one, but then again, he doesn't seem exactly like the sweet ones either. He's probably ruthless and domineering, but at the same time overly cautious with his life choices. He's probably the kind of guy who never calls women back, but calls his Grandma Wheatie three times a day to makes sure she hadn't broken her hip again.

 

Katniss knows, though, looks can be harshly deceiving. So… Kat.

 

"I just don't get how you could have never learned to drive stick? I mean, isn't that a rule for all drivers or something." When Peeta makes no comment, Katniss continues, "It should be. Maybe that's why there's less crashes in Europe, ya know. People should learn to drive stick."

 

Peeta clears his throat, "I don't actually do much driving."

 

"Much?" Katniss inquires, confused at his words.

 

"Any." He corrects, "I have a driver in New York."

 

"You know, that's not a bad idea. You're giving a job to someone. And carpooling saves gas, and we need to save all the oil we can, ya know? I mean god, 4 freaking dollars for a gallon of gas. I mean not that I do much driving - I don't have a car- but I mean this gas situation needs to be cleared up, ya know. But- yeah, carpooling, that's good." He smiles at her, a genuine one, not one of those smiles to brush her off or shut her up, but an endearing smile. He's endeared by her awkward ramblings; she never was good with words. "Hey, what kind of car do you drive?"

 

She'd bet her money for tonight, all of fifty shiny dollars, that he drives a Tesla, or some other type of "go green" car, he looks like one of those caring, nerdy guys. The type to save the universe from his battery operated car.

 

"Escalade."

 

Bet lost.

 

This is why she has no money for rent.

 

Katniss purses her lips, then scowls, "Those aren't exactly good on gas."

 

He smiles looking over at her, "You don't say." His wallet probably knows how they're bad on gas.

 

"Yeah, so if you're trying to help the world, you might want to... I don't know, drive a Volvo or something. Just some food for thought," she switches gears into third, properly, and accelerates quickly.

 

It doesn't go unnoticed that the man to her right tenses when she makes sharp turns or fast accelerations, and purely because this is his car, she eases on the gas.

 

From the corner of her eye, Katniss can tell he's looking at her. She can see his jaw is flexed tensely, he's obviously grinding his teeth together. His palms trail up and down his left leg, almost reassuring it's there, or wiping the sweat on them; Katniss is not entirely sure.

 

"So what kind of money do you girls make these days?" His voice cuts through the silence, as his palms stop their moving.

 

One-fifty a night usually, but not tonight.

 

She thinks, she knows, to go higher than normal, a guy who has a driver and owns a Escalade can afford it, "two-fifty."

 

He whistles, "You make two-fifty a night?"

 

**Hook**

 

"An hour," she corrects him, her lips tugging into a sly smile.

 

He shakes his head, and blanches. "You make two-fifty an hour?" She nods and smirks. He stares at her with his usually taut jaw slack. He knows he heard her wrong, "You make two hundred and fifty  _dollars_  … an hour." She shrugs, keeping her eyes on the road. "two-fifty, and you can't afford to buy a skirt that covers your ass."

 

**Line.**

 

"It's a uniform," she defends, "Besides, I don't donate to charity. Do you think Snoop Dogg's dealer sells him shit at bottom prices. Absolutely not, sir. I have the good goods everyone likes."

 

He laughs, trailing his eyes up and down her form, "Yeah I'm sure you do." He picks himself up, pulling down his slightly tented pants. God how long has it been, at least three months. "So two-fifty. That's pretty stiff."

**Sinker.**

Katniss' hand snakes its way to his pants and feels his cock through his navy suit slacks, raised at half mast. "Only slightly."

Hook, Line, and Sinker.

 

 

When he looks at her perfectly calm with only slightly arched eyebrows, she retracts herself with a sheepish smile and continues driving.

 

She is annoyed that he didn't react. She expected some backlash, a laugh, a deep breath in; hell, maybe even a disgusted shake of his head, but his complete silence and calm demeanor only makes her more frustrated.

 

* * *

**Are you lonely just like me?**

 

They pull up to the Beverly Wilshire, the pretentiousness of the building was so thick that it wafted into the car settling around Katniss and Peeta like fiery smoke.

 

"We have arrived at our destination sir," Kat drawls playfully, jumping out of the car, not caring to conservatively pull her skirt down, and tosses the keys onto Peeta's no longer tented lap.

 

Peeta walks over to her slowly, as the valet takes the keys from him, retiring the car for the rest of the night, or the trip, if Peeta had it his way.

 

"Well Kat, thank you." He says, handing her the money. "You'll find a ride back?"

 

She swings her arms, and clasps her hands together, "Yeah, I'm taking the bus."

 

Peeta nods his head in understanding, "Ah, saving the world, one carpooled ride at a time."

 

She smiles slightly and quietly laughs with raised eyebrows, "Yep… One ride at a time."

 

"Right, well, here's your money. Thank you for the ride."

 

She nods her head as if to say an unsentimental goodbye. Kat is the first to walk away, her heals clicking on the side walk, as Peeta looks on at her. He should turn away.

 

Should.

 

But there's a nagging voice inside of his head.  _Months._  It's been months. And then he hears Clove's voice, with her hisses and accusations. He's boring, safe, monotonous. Peeta Mellark is predictable. That's what she said to him when she left with her Louis Vuitton luggage clutched in her talons, Peeta Mellark is already dead. He wants to be anything but the lifeless man he has become. The man who works 60 hours a week, with no time for family or friends. The man who only goes home to make calls and avoids any type of social setting. The man who has become as trite and uninteresting as his life.

 

Well a trite and uninteresting man would not hire a prostitute. No. That's something men like Peeta Mellark would never do.

 

When Peeta looks at her - really looks at her - he notices that she's not that bad looking. Her hair needs to be changed, that's a given. But she's quite beautiful. And there's something in her manner, her childlike demeanor, that's innocently appealing. Her incessant need to keep the conversation going is endearing. And maybe, just maybe, her childish behavior will earn her money for the night.

 

So, when he sees Kat standing by the sidewalk, her hip jutted out, her arms crossed, her face calmly anticipating the bus, when he sees her as a beautiful escape from his neatly boxed, boring life; he doesn't see a prostitute. He sees the polar opposite of his mirror reflection. She's dark, and adventurous, and doesn't have her life pieced perfectly together.

 

He sees the possibility. He sees the possibility of a beautiful scenery that just needs to be painted.

And somehow, through his eyes and silent reverie, his body has left no choice but to hire this girl because before he knew it, he's merely a foot from her. And before he can back out, and run like the coward he is, he clears his throat with an authoritative cough.

 

She twirls around on her heals, "What can I do for you, sugar?"

 

_What Can I do for you?_

 

What can she do for him? Peeta doesn't know. Why is he here, who is she again? He doesn't even remember. This was unlike him. He was usually so cold and so domineering; he was usually the Christian Grey and she  _should_  be as timid as Bella Swan. But instead, her demeanor turned him into a tongue tied pubescent teen being propositioned by a woman for the first time. She's anything but a fragile female.

 

Peeta smiles at her, "Did you really say two hundred and fifty an hour?"

 

"That's right."

 

"I thought so," Peeta calmly runs his hands down his suit and gathers his thoughts, "Well, how would you like to accompany me to my room, unless you had other plans?"

 

A large, engulfing smile tugs on Kat's face, "I think I could switch some plans around for that." She dusts imaginary dirt off his shoulders. "So, what's your name?"

 

Right. Name. That would be helpful. "Peeta."

 

"Peeta? Really? It just so happens that I love gyros." She says adjusting the bag on her shoulder.

 

He smirks at her, "Why does that not surprise me," he shrugs his suit jacket off and puts it around her shoulders.

 

"What are you doing?" She asks, and tries to resist his clothes. "You know, I can clothe myself."

 

"I don't doubt that; but you see, Kat, this hotel," he pauses, clasping the jacket around her, "I don't think it's the kind of hotel you frequent."

 

She stops dead on the sidewalk staring at him, and crosses her hands over her chest. "What do you mean I frequent? What makes you think I haven't been here before? Hm?" When he doesn't respond, and instead resumes pushing her forward with his hand on the small of her back, she relents and glides along the entrance way. "You know, I've been here a lot. A lot. And you know… this place- this place really,  _really_  isn't all its cracked up to be." He bites his smile back at her flustered ramblings and spirited, punctuating hands. She talks with her hands.

 

She continues, "In fact, it's nothing compared to the Ritz. Seriously, if you wanted to impress me you should have gotten a room there. I mean, Wilshire, really? Did your grandpa pick this room for you?" She's goading him on, staring at him as he pushes her forward.

 

Peeta doesn't say anything as he guides her into the lobby. And as she enters, Kat's demeanor instantly changes. She tugs his suite jacket tighter around her, like it's a security blanket protecting her.

 

A laugh escapes her as she takes in the marble and ornate decor. "You've gotta be shitting me."

* * *

 


	2. Like a Prayer

 

Thank you so much for the support.

Also to my Beta: everarkcheesebuns, she's phenominal, aint she?

**When You Call My Name, It's Like a Little Prayer**

* * *

 

Katniss Everdeen has seen many things in her life.

Many, many things. Many things that would probably make half the people inside the Beverly Hills Wilshire cringe with disgust and awe. But without a doubt, this was the most revolting and, simultaneously, fascinating thing she had ever seen.

She has never seen granite so smooth or ceilings so high. She's never seen flowers so decadent or chandeliers so ornate. This has to be, without a doubt, the most beautiful hotel she's ever stepped in. But she knows, just as much as the stern lady who's scrutinizing Katniss' fishnet clad legs, that isn't saying much.

The hotel's alive with the sound of music. For a second, she wanted to do a Julie Andrews and twirl around the hotel in her raunchy outfit, but she can't imagine Peeta, or the hotel staff, allowing that.

She realizes that Peeta must be someone important, judging by the way the workers treat him. She notices the way they nod and bow to him. How they great him warmly like an old friend rather than a wandering-passerby.

She can't pay too much attention to what they say or how they speak to him, because she's too busy gaping- too awed by the beauty of this room. People who stay here probably made more money than God, or Clive Davis.

She should be angry because she's surrounded by such privilege, or self-conscious about how she's dressed. She should be doing many things, but she knows they're all moot.

If anything, Katniss Everdeen should be upset because she knows that no matter what she does, she'll never end up here on her own. But alas, she's here; and she refuses to let this moment slip from her without taking it all in.

Her fidgeting and wonderment doesn't stop when Peeta moves to take her to the hotel room.

No. Instead, her fidgeting skyrockets as she enters a special elevator that has an elevator operator and a large, plush couch inside it.

Why is there a sofa in an elevator? Seriously. People are in there for like two minutes; why does someone need a couch in an elevator?

So she does what any sane person would do, she sits on the soft, red velvet sofa. It's glorious. It's not because she wants to, or because her feet hurt. Instead it's to stop the shaking, show that she's calm, collected. She's a hooker, and she doesn't pretend to be anything more. She doesn't want to be anything more in this moment. Because if she's more she knows deep down somewhere this man could take her and rip her apart. And Katniss Everdeen of all people won't let him to do that. She has to wear an armor, and right now her armor is classless, childish in nature.

"Oh my god," she groans, but no one seems to pay attention to her. "This is comfy, why don't you take a seat?" Katniss calls from the sofa, with her feat tucked under her knees.

Peeta swivels his head to look behind him, and he shakes his head at her. "Do you know how many people sit on those things and how rarely they clean them?" He pauses, before turning to the elevator operator, "I mean, no offense Marvel."

"None taken, sir." The man lightly murmurs but is overwhelmed by Katniss' loud answer to Peeta's question.

"Three hundred and eight," she guesses, causing Marvel to chuckle. He only stops when he realizes how unrefined he is acting. After his poor conduct, the operator straightens his back and stares ahead, with a stoic expression on his face.

"At least," Peeta repeats with a slight smirk.

"So, you have a thing with germs."

"A thing," he confirms looking above at the numbers as they slowly escalate higher into the building.

"Like OCD." Katniss prompts, making a scene of herself lying down on the sofa with the hands above her head, stretching in the most sexual way Marvel has ever seen done on that couch. Katniss groans, as she lifts her back off the coach, winking in Marvel's direction. Peeta has not turned around to look at her, and instead remained quiet, not falling trap to Katniss' games.

"Kind of."

"You know-," Katniss starts, but is cut off by the ding on the elevator. She quickly stands up, and takes a stride forward to be next to him. "You know," she says as the door open and makes her way through walking forward. But Peeta has stopped to reach in his lapel and hand the man a few singles.

"Thank you. Marvel."

"Of course, sir."

Peeta steps forward, and places his hand on the small of Katniss' back again, moving her closer to the door at the end of the hall.

So she starts again. "You know," she restates with a higher pitched voice, "taboo sex is like OCD. I saw it on an episode of 'Sex sent me to the ER'. Basically, some people have a fear of being attracted to something unwanted so they do crazy things during sex to keep the wanted."

"How interesting," he comments, pulling the room key out of his wallet.

"It is, isn't it? Anyway, I thought it's useful, you know, just incase you ever find yourself on jeopardy or something and there's a category for OCD"

"So, do you have sexually intrusive thoughts? Should I be concerned?" He says with a tight smile.

With a dull, uncaring voice, she answers, "I mean, I didn't hire a hooker."

Instead of chuckling, Peeta takes a deep breath in as he tries to swipe his key, failing three different times because of his shaking hands. "Sorry, it's these fucking keys." He tries to concentrate with his tongue pressed to the side of his mouth.

Katniss watches him with rapt interest as he fails again to open the door. His nerves were slightly cute. She takes the plastic key from him, ignoring a small spark that sets her skin on fire. "Here, let me." She swipes the card in one try and, miraculously, the door opens.

He chuckles, "Typical."

If it weren't for his shaking hands, Katniss wouldn't even think this man has nerves. His voice is authoritatively strong and set in his ways.

He's also gorgeous.

Which can be a good and bad thing for Katniss. Sure, she tries to find something attractive in her clients; it makes things easier for her if there's at least one thing she likes. But with this man, with Peeta, she doesn't need to search for his attractive features- it's clear. Everything about him has in some way attracted her. But he's just a client, and it makes her job easier to remember that she's only here for the cash.

When she opens the door and he enters, Katniss is revealed to a room more gorgeous than the lobby. It knocks the wind out of her like a violent punch in the gut, taking her by complete surprise. It's huge- with glass windows and calm grey walls that open to a large flowing room.

Peeta looks at her, taking in her obvious shock, "It's not much…"

But it's certainly not home, or any home Katniss has ever found herself in.

"No. Not at all," Katniss says with a disbelieving laugh. "God, how much does this cost?"

Peeta shrugs, "You couldn't afford it."

Katniss should be upset that he's throwing his wealth in her face, but she's much too distracted to care. And realistically speaking, she definitely couldn't afford this.

The room was huge. Ridiculously huge. There was a kitchen for christ's sake. A KITCHEN! A fucking kitchen, with a stove and a fridge and a sink and a fruit bowl…

An exotic fucking fruit bowl.

Peeta walks to the opposite side of the room, going to a desk, looking through papers that were scattered around on it. "Please, Kat, make yourself at home." He takes a seat at the desk, looking through a folder, without looking up.

Katniss shrugs his jacket off neatly, folding it over her arms as her eyes taking in the marble flooring and crystal chandeliers. She feels like she should act with some decorum and pull her skirt down, so she hikes it up farther onto her legs.

"So where do you want me?" She asks as she swanks closer to where he's sitting, placing his jacket neatly on one of the love seats near the desk.

"Wherever you feel comfortable."

"Anywhere you prefer?"

"No."

She stops walking, as if there were an invisible fence separating her from Peeta. Katniss nods, mutely, so unused to this abrupt and cold behavior. It's like he didn't even want her there.

She takes a seat on one of the plush white chairs that faces the desk. "So, how long are you here for?"

"Oh," he says as if he forgot she was there, looking up from a paper. "I'm here until Sunday."

"Cool," she mutters. She notices that his crystal blue eyes are covered in chic (probably Italian) glasses. It infuriates her to note that the cyan color isn't even dulled, if anything, its magnified by the pompous frames, enhanced by his loose navy tie and white button down. She wishes something about her were as striking as his eyes were. All she has is coal- coal eyes, hard scowl, and maybe, just maybe, if her mother put enough pressure on her as a child, she'd be a pearl - an American, Romani, deep dusky pearl.

Peeta must be German or something.

"So…" he begins, as Katniss smiles encouragingly. "I'm sorry, I didn't think this through." He runs his hand through his neatly, jelled blonde hair, tousling it to untamed curls.

"Do you always plan everything?"

Peeta nods, "Every detail."

"Well, I'm a do it as it comes, girl. You know, easy come, easy go."

"I don't think that's the proper idiom for what you're trying to say," he tells her with his shoulder tense, sitting at the desk, obviously stressed. His eyes start fluttering around the room, probably looking for the quickest way out.

She rolls her eyes, "Well you can… you know, pay me. That might be able to help you think it through."

He chuckles, "Right, money." Katniss makes her way over to him, her heels stabbing and clicking on the white marble floors beneath her. Peeta gets up, walks to one of the rooms, and comes back with cash in his hand. "Sorry, I assumed you don't take credit?"

"Oh yeah, shit. Sorry I left my portable swiper at the office."

He takes a seat at the desk and hands her the money. "That's really inconvenient, Kat."

Katniss shrugs trying not to make a face when he calls her by her petname, "Sorry, there was this Aston Martin screeching down the road, and I had to make sure the driver wasn't some asshole tourist."

"How'd that work out?"

"Oh, you know, the typical asshole tourist. He didn't even know how to drive a stick."

Peeta feigns a gasp, "How could he?"

"I honestly don't know," Katniss says dryly, reaching into her bra and wedging herself between the chair and the desk, her legs nestled between his thighs."Ok, so I have bareskin," she says pulling Trustex condoms out, "strawberry flavored, uItra ribbed, I'm out of the XL - but I don't think that'll be a problem," she says flicking to his groin then back to his raised eyebrows, "and finally," she enunciates, lowering her voice an octave, "The extended pleasure, lubricated condom."

"Stop. You're turning me on," he deadpans.

Katniss smiles turning her attention to the different rubbers, "Condoms, the propellant behind every man's libido ."

"The ultra ribbed's open." Katniss ignores him, playing with it instead, "That can't be safe."

"Trust me, nothin's gettin through this baby. It's the condoms of champions." She argues, holding it closer to his face.

Peeta pulls away and shakes his head, grabbing her wrist, "You should throw it out. There's probably diseases or a rip... or something on there."

"Don't worry Peeta-Bread, I'll use one of the closed ones," she says, pulling her wrist out of his grasp.

She puts the condoms on the desk behind her, and leans her hands on the chair, on either side of him. Capturing him, she nestles her leg dangerously close to his groin, and trails her fingers down his suit lapel, her lips leaving a hot breath on the shell of his ear. She feels, rather than hears him gulp, his chest heaving for air. Before she knows it, her tongue slithers its way through her lips, to bring his lobe into her mouth.

And just when she's about to taste him, his hands are on her shoulders pushing her back. "How about a drink, huh?"

He pushes the chair back, keeping distance between them as he makes his way to the minibar near the kitchen, leaving Katniss behind in dizzying confusion. He just paid her, and now he doesn't even want her.

It annoys Katniss. Honestly. It irks her and makes frustrates that he keeps avoiding her. He didn't pay her for nothing, and she doesn't do charity. She doesn't need his charity. But he's the employer. "Sure." She claps her hand on the desk and follows him. "Mind if I take off my shoes?"

"Sure," he bellows, unaware that she's a few feet from his back. She takes them off, and slips behind him quietly, waiting for him to realize she's a few mere inches from him. He turns around, unstartled, and hands her a glass of red wine. "I hope Screaming Eagle will do. Do you like red wine?"

Katniss shrugs, not particularly picky about drinks as long as they have some percentage of alcohol in them. She chugs the glass, in three gulps, looking around the kitchen, unaware that Peeta only took a small sip.

Before she knows it, her glass is finished, and she looks a little sheepish, wiping her red upper lip with the back of her hand. "Sorry," she mumbles. "It's good," she enthuses.

Peeta nods, "I'll tell the concierge of your approval. I don't really have a taste for wine."

Then why does he have it?

"Then why do you have it?" She swears she has a filter.

"It's complimentary service on behalf of the hotel."

Katniss' mouth hangs open and forms a perfect 'O' and takes Peeta's glass when he hands her his own.

"Would you like some grapes?" He inquires, pulling grapes from the fridge and placing them on the marble counter to her left.

Katniss plucks some of the seedless grapes from the vine. "So what do you 'have a taste for'?" she repeats his words in a raspy voice.

It was meant to be a husky suggestion, break the ice, turn him on. It was meant to get him all hot and bothered. But he doesn't even care. In fact, Katniss can't even tell if he realizes her implication.

Peeta's indifference translates through his shoulders, taking a few grapes and turns around on his heel, "I like scotch." He explains popping two red Californian grapes in his mouth.

He's beginning to infuriate her. She lets out a huff of air and scoffs, "You know we only have an hour, and you don't have to romance me." Then she whispers antagonizing him, "You already paid."

She scowls as he turns around with a smug smile on his lips.

"Is time that big of a complication to you?" He genuinely asks, bearing his perfectly straight teeth. He probably had braces. She didn't, which is why her bottom canine tooth is a little crooked.

"Well… yeah." Katniss utters as if it's the most obvious thing in the world; she needs to make money.

"Fine-"

"Ok, let's get started," she states, reaching for his pants, but he grasps her hands.

"How much for the whole night?"

"The whole night?" Katniss asks, dropping her hands and scrunching her eyebrows together. The whole night. He wants her for the whole night. Usually her clients wanted a fuck and chuck… but a whole night. She looks around the room, how much could he afford? How much was normal for the whole night? Where's Madge when she's needed. God, is five hundred too much for the whole night? "You couldn't afford it," she repeats his words from earlier with a smirk on her face.

Peeta's smile grows, and chuckles at her. "I deserved that." At Katniss' nod, he continues, "Try me. Name your price, Kat."

'Kat' makes her uncomfortable. He doesn't even know her real name, and he wants her to stay the whole night. Would he want to cuddle, isn't that a bit intimate?

What if he's a serial killer? Ted Bundy was rich. Right? He murdered women. He was good looking too. Oh god, she's going to die. What's too much for a hooker? How much does this room cost a night? Surely he wouldn't pay the price of this room for a night with a street hooker. She's not even high class, and for all he knew she had herpes. (And that shit stays with you.)

Katniss looks around her. It's an open space, but it's not like ten bedrooms. There's granite, but the walls were cold, and there was a limited balcony outside, no ocean view…

"1-1,000," Katniss stutters.

"Done," he quickly agrees taking cash out of his back pocket. Katniss scoffs. This has to be a joke. She just made a thousand dollars like it was nothing. He just spent a thousand dollars like it was nothing.

She's going to die. He's going to torture her, take her fingers first, maybe mutilate her stomach. She hopes its not too bad in case they want an open casket for the wake; God please don't let him do anything to her nose- she likes her nose, it's a cute nose.

She should call Madge and let her know she can have everything except for the leather hunting jacket. The jacket goes to Prim. Katniss swallows hard and follows his movements as he counts the cash in his hand, moving his plump lips without uttering a word, and gives it to her. Waiting for him to pull out a switch blade, she gulps, as he places the money in her shaking hands. "Let's go to the bedroom. The desk in there has my computer, and I have to do work. Bring whatever food you want, there's a TV in there." He says dismissively as he makes his way to the door by the hall.

She should look for a knife, but instead she reaches for the pita chips and cheese on the counter.

And fine, ok. She casually slips a dull knife into the back of her shirt. If he catches her… it's for the cheese.

 

 

**I'm down on my knees, I want to take you there.**

* * *

 

 

 

Peeta waited until 3:15 am to talk in her direction again. A full two hours, and four episodes of Friends later. She couldn't blame him, he seemed frustrated on the phone, talking in another language. Katniss was tired, but she couldn't bring herself to sleep when he paid a thousand dollars for her. So instead, she's drinking a glass of water to keep herself awake and eating her biggest meal in months while laughing at Ross' misfortune.

Poor Ross, he'll never get Rachel.

Taking a sip from her water, she turns to Peeta who just finished his phone call speaking some language that sounded like Chinese or Italian or something romantic like that. Katniss didn't know, but it was impressive. His hands are in his hair, pressing down heavily, and he's removed his black framed glasses and waste coat, vest thing. Leaving Peeta in just his button down, tie, and pant suits, she takes a bite of chocolate before wiping her mouth.

"Voilà!" Katniss exclaims as her hands enthusiastically cutting through the air and pointing to the smörgåsbord around her. Sure, she only knows six words of French, but Peeta doesn't know that for sure.

Voilà, Bonjour, je ne sais pas.

Thank you Madge Undersee who has relatives in Ren, France… Alright, so Katniss eavesdrops...

Peeta looks up at her with screwed eyebrows, "What?"

Katniss voice breaks the word coming out almost like a question, "Voilà?"

He chuckles, "Je suis impressionné que vous parlez français, Kat."

Her mouth unhinges at his words. While she's heard Madge speak French many times, it sounds so much sexier coming from Peeta, and with that hair. Say it again, Peeta.

"What?" She questions, an internal prayer playing in her head. Say it again. Say it again.

"I said I'm impressed you speak French."

NO. In French. Say it again in French.

"Yeah, well, all in the work of a call girl."

"Do you speak any other languages?"

Katniss gulps, "Um… Sarcasm? Oh! I took Spanish in high school."

Peeta nods, "Hablo español, pero un poco."

"How many languages do you speak."

"Five, but I'm not really fluent in any of them. I only know enough to speak with other companies."

"Oh…" She is not disappointed. No, sir, not disappointed that he probably speaks seventeen language, while she barely knows enough English to be considered fluent.

Peeta nods, "French, Indonesian, Russian, German, Chinese." AHA! She knew it was Chinese. "But, seriously, not well. I usually have google translate up when I'm in a business conference," he says with a polite and ernest smile.

"Do you want to join me? Friends is really funny."

His smile grows, "I don't doubt it, but I'm too wired right now to relax."

She's heard many lines to get her going, but 'I'm wired,' has never been one. Still, all the same, she gets on her knees and crawls to him.

"Maybe I can help you relax," she reaches for her shirt, but his words stops her.

"How about we just… converse." He politely suggests, his voice sounding stiff.

Katniss has had enough of this toying around business. And Goddammit, she's tired. Can't she just suck it and get it over with or something?

"Right… converse…." She nods, the word sounding so awkward falling from her lips, while sitting back on her haunches with an irritated look on her face. "What do you want to talk about?"

Peeta shrugs, "What do you usually talk about… with clients?" God, he makes everything sound so fucking clinical.

"I usually don't."

"Right…" Peeta nods his head pulling on the strands of his hair, almost as if he's nervous.

Right then and there, Katniss realizes his insecurities- his innocence and naiveté. They're so striking mixed with his dejected armor. And, just like that, she gets it. He's never paid for companionship. His face is so open, giving nothing away- he's ashamed.

She's ashamed too. But she won't admit that out loud, not to Madge, not to Prim. She hates herself, and what she's become; she's so vulnerable. But she won't let that deter her or stop her. She's come so far in life, so far from the starving street kid from Panem, Pennsylvania.

She won't let herself admit to her shame.

But why was he? Why was he alone in this penthouse, probably worth more money than what Katniss made in a year. Why would he pay for this to be by himself. She wants to know. Instead of asking, she steps forward.

He may have no experience, but she does. She knows, she's been doing this for four months, and that has given her one thing: the experience to make this man less ashamed.

She could work with that…

"Let's play a game."

"What game?" He asks, gazing heavily at her.

"Ok, so," she steps closer to him. "When I get something right about you, you take a piece of clothing off, and when you get something right about me, I take something off."

"Kat I don't think that's -"

"It'll be fun," she encourages, pulling herself up to sit on his desk in front of him.

"I don't-"

"You own a business." She rushes, with a smile on her face. Ease him in.

Peeta grins, fully, "I basically told you that."

"Take it off," she snaps.

Peeta sighs and pulls off his tie, cheater. That should be cheating. That's like taking off a bracelet or something.

He runs his hand through his hair, scrutinizing her, "Kat's not your real name."

What?

How does he know that?

"What? How do you know that?"

"You hardly answer to it, and when you do, you have a scowl on your face. It's almost like your body's rejecting the name itself. See… Kat," He chuckles, "Scowl."

Well, she'll be damned. At least he's observant. If he kills her, at least she'll die at the hands of someone who actually paid attention to her. That's more than her mother ever did.

"Lucky guess," she pulls off her stockings, making a show of it lessening her scowl. Sure, she could take off her bracelets, but that's such a cheap shot. She stares at him, scanning over him from his blonde locks to his thumping right foot. "You're rich."

Peeta throws his head back and laughs. "No. What gave that away?" Katniss pouts; she knew it was a shit observation, but god what is a girl to do.

"Fine." Something generic, he's a shit driver, "You've been in a car accident." He takes off his gold, encrusted cufflinks. "Seriously, dude, cufflinks? At this rate we'll be naked by tomorrow."

"Kind of the point." Peeta nods, smirking at her, "Not your real hair."

She's never lost at this game. Fucking bread and his observation skills. Suddenly she's not too keen on him. He has a weird chin. Yes, a weird chin. Sure his eyes were as beautiful as Ryan Gosling's, his hair looked as picturesque as Leonardo's, but that was the devil's chin. She's done, no longer attracted. It's over. Thank you Peeta, for making this easy.

She makes a loud huff as she pulls the zipper down on her crop top and shrugs it off her shoulders. Leaving her clad in a basically sea through bra, she gleefully takes in Peeta's stare and bobbing Adam's Apple.

She stares at him. She doesn't even know his last name, so she can't guess his nationality. Blonde hair, blue eyes. He has to be, what, Nordic? Ugh, not worth the guess. "You prefer scotch." Katniss winces, that was the epitome of cheap shot.

"I told you that!"

"Fine," she thinks, looking him over from top to bottom, "You double knot your shoe laces." She laughs at him, smiling fully as his jaw slackens in disbelief. "Take-it-off. Take-it-off. Take-it-off." She chants, pumping her arms, laughing slightly, as he rolls his eyes at her, a smile tugging also on his lips. He shakes his head as he pulls the button down off his broad shoulders. She whoops when his chest is finally bear.

Katniss drinks him in- his fine physique. He's not one of those guys that's completely buff, and she likes that. He's stocky, obviously has muscle and works out, but it's not overly defined like so many men wanted to be. His arms were thick, and he must lift some type of weights; he could probably lift her over his head and throw her like a pillow or sack of flour or something light like that. She had a feeling flour wasn't that light.

"You did not come to LA to be a hooker."

"Are you insinuating it's not my dream to pleasure men?" She scoffs, hoisting her feet up onto his chair, her feet on either side of his thighs as, she slowly pulls her skirt down, revealing a matching, basically scrap material thong. Peeta looks up at her, as she moves and kneels on his lap, dangerously close to his mouth. In a husky voice, she whispers, "You got made fun of for your name when you were younger."

He barks laughter. "You have no idea." He puts his hand on either side of her shoulder, pushing her off him. She leans back and pulls herself to the desk, as she notices his light chest hair. "Kat- what's your real name."

She wants to tell him she can't say that. She can't trust him. But the look in his eye, the trust, and clear sky blue just makes her trust him. She was already here, he could do anything he wanted to her - and he'll be gone Sunday. Before she can hesitate, before she can think, she tells the truth for the first time in two months. "Katniss."

He mouths her name to her and smiles, then he whispers it as if trying it on his mouth, "Katniss. That's beautiful."

"You're not getting off that easy Peeta-Bread." She lifts an eyebrow and tugs on the buttons of his pants.

He clears his throat. "I-uh, I haven't- I want to keep my pants on."

"What?" She harshly bites, harsher than she wanted to sound.

"My pants remain on," he replies curtly, authoritatively. She realizes that while he's sounded strong and authoritative before, here his voice is unwavering. It's crisp and cuts the air like he's commanding an army, rather than a common whore on his lap.

"Fine." She cuts him off, unbuttoning his pants and pushing his slacks and navy boxer-briefs down to the middle of his thigh, his cock springing free. Then, with a soft shove, she propels him to the chair he was sitting in. She takes him in, kneeling in between his strong legs still in her undergarments. She pulls one of the condoms out of her bra, throwing the others unceremoniously onto the desk behind her. She then gets up and straddles his lap.

She unhooks her bra, and lets it fall in between them, never letting her eyes leave his. "What do you want," she whispers, softly, running her hands through his hair, brushing it from his eyes.

He gulps again, either for air or to calm his nerves, "What do you do?"

She leans in, her center brushing against the underside of his groin. "Anything… But kiss-I don't kiss on the lips. It's too personal."

Peeta nods with her, looking down at her breasts and palming them in his large, muscular hands. "I've given up on personal anyway."

She gasps as he kneads them, pinching her peaks. He's working them in his firm hands, causing a dangerous tug between her thighs. It's taking over her, like a wave on an ocean's beach as he palms her, working her. But this isn't about her-not about her pleasure.

Katniss leans down and kisses his neck before sliding off the chair, much to his hands' dismay, and trails her lips down his bare chest. Her hands find the condom, still grasped in her hand. She tears it open with her teeth, never letting her blackened eyes strain from his glassy ones. She presses the tip and slides it over his length, for the first time, touching him.

He's not overly long, he's almost the perfectly average length. To be honest, men who were long usually hurt her, trying to fill her to their hilt when they take her how they want. But he was thick. Her fingers slide over him, measuring his girth in her fingers. She hears him chuckle from where he's sitting, and she looks at him sheepishly. Then, with her gaze not leaving his face, she strokes him languidly, pumping him. His chuckles stop, and his jaw slackens. She takes in his reactions, registering what he likes, and what he doesn't.

"What do you want?" she huskily repeats from earlier, gripping him tighter in her hand, moving over him at a steady even pace.

He looks at her, his eyes hooded, mouth agape. "Whatever you're willing to give."

As her hand moves from base to tip, she grips him tighter in her hand, as her other plays with his sac, palming them rolling them. Then, without warning, she leans in, kissing the tip of his covered member, running her tongue in his slit, almost wishing she could taste him. She kisses up and down his erect member, leaving a hot trail of wetness that she wishes he could feel. She pretends she can taste his skin, rather than the latex that separates them, and she's never been so lost in wanting something like that before.

And when she's done, sufficiently leaving her mark on him, she encases his tip in her mouth, playing with his head even through the latex, her tongue playing under his hood. She sucks hard, as her hands find refuge on the hard planes of his stomach. While relaxing her throat and ignoring the pooling at the apex of her legs, she moves lower, taking him in as far as he'll go. As far as she'll let him for now.

She knows she's good at this, she's received many compliments, and many hard thrusts from men who lost themselves within her mouth. But when she hollows out her cheeks, bobbing her head, and can feel his stomach tense, it feels like a compliment she's never had before. She moves her left hand, to below her mouth, fisting what she can't take in. Working him over how she wants. She wants this, she wants him to fall apart above her. She wants him to scream her name, let the hotel hear her pleasing him. She's delirious with sleep and want, a deadly combination that is blurring the lines between her work and the personal.

Peeta's hands rest over her fake strands. He's delicate, pulling it from her face as she begins to move faster. But she doesn't want that, she doesn't want him to delicately handle her, she wants him to treat her roughly, to remind her that this is not real, this is fake. She wants him to remind Katniss that this man is buying her, and if she were not for sale, he would not want her.

She can hear him above her muttering things under his breath, so she looks up at him, under her fake eyelashes. When his stare meets hers, his hands tighten on her head, as if a life line, as if it's the only thing holding him together. She lets him go with a pop and smack of her lips.

"Do you want to be inside me?"

His body had an answer readily. She could feel his hands twitch, a subtle thrust of his hip, his thighs clench and a tiny groan escaping his lips. But his words, his words told another story. "Keep going," he whispers, his hands lightly pushing her head back down.

So she goes to work, an inner mantra playing in her head with each passing motion. Up. Down. Hollowed Cheeks. Then she puts her hand over his, pushing her head down, telling him its alright, she needs this. She needs the pain. Remind her.

She's for sale.

She's only a rental.

She's not permanent.

His hands move slowly first, pushing her down, letting her move up, her tongue slithering patterns on the condom, knowing he could feel the motions. His hips start to move then, his lips whisper her name, as he uses her. Uses her body. She takes him all the way in, her nose brushing his pelvis bone. She calms her breathing, opens her throat, welcoming him in.

"K-Katniss," she hears him above her, panting her name. His hips making shallow movements, and when she looks at him his eyes won't leave her. He watches her, with fascination, with want, with dark orbs no longer the crystal color, rather now a dark blue, like the ocean. Deep and unending. She won't leave him, as he slowly begins to fuck her mouth, slowly at first then quicker pace. "You're so-" He begins, but his mouth drops open.

"I-I-I'm" He stutters, throwing his head back, and the next thing she knows, he's falling apart before her. Completely tense and beautiful. He looks like an angel, his soft blonde hair disheveled to damp curls on his forehead. She wishes she could suck him dry, taste him. She unwillingly lets him go from her mouth.

While he's breathing, his head back and so relaxed, she takes the time to remove the condom, tie it off, and dispose it in the bin below the desk, directly behind her. She smiles as she see him, finally back alive.

Suddenly, he collects her, and pulls her to his lap. "Your turn," He says putting her on the desk, his eyes even with her black panties.

"No."

He looks at her confused, "What do you mean, no?"

Katniss swallows, hard. There's a million reasons why she says no- she doesn't have a female condom, she knows she's clean but not about him, this isn't about her. More than any of them, one reason stands in her way. If she gets pleasure, then he's treated her as more, and she can't be more.

She can't delude herself into thinking she can be more. She can't.

"No. This isn't about me."

He has only one reason he can pull, he paid for her. He owns her for the night.

His head shakes, "You don't want this?"

"No." She affirms.

Peeta nods, his confusion making it hard to decipher her. She looks around the room, stretching, and yawning. "You're tired?" She nods, putting her hand over her mouth.

"I mean no." She quickly states, "Not if you're not."

He chuckles slightly, "Let's go to bed." He says quietly as he pulls her over to the plush bed. This bed, it had to be the size of her entire half of the room she shares with Madge, it's like the Pacific, trailing on forever. When Peeta puts her on it, she climbs under the covers, not even waiting for permission as she snuggles in.

Peeta makes a move to leave, leaving Katniss tucked into a bed much too big. "Where are you going?" She inquires quickly, afraid to be alone in this room.

"I'm um, just gong to change quickly," He says, pulling grey sweats from a dresser she didn't see before.

Katniss is exhausted, she should wait for him as he goes into the bathroom. But she's tired, so tired. Her body, her feet, her eyes, everything just screams sleep. In her haze she doesn't even wonder why he won't change in front of her. She closes her eyes, treading on sleep's door, and she's almost there when he exits changed. Her eyes frantically snap open to watch him, pretend like she wasn't just asleep, his clothes neatly folded in his hand, which he places them on the desk a few seconds later.

She looks over him, bare chested, the grey pants fitting him beautifully, tight at the hips, loose on his legs. She imagines his calves toned, tight, with light hair dusting them. She wishes she could see them. Maybe it's best she didn't. He's left his socks on, Oh god, is he one of those people who sleeps with socks? She's never understood that.

He takes his time getting into bed, her eyes flutter shut some time before then.

Her mind shuts off before she can even feel the dip in the bed, the most glorious bed she's ever laid in.

And before she hears the window open, or feels the light breeze, she falls asleep. Her last thought staying on only one thing.

Where did she put that knife?

 

* * *

 

**In the midnight hour, I can feel your power**

**Just like a prayer, you know I'll take you there.**

I dropped a hint for something you f find out next chapter, did you catch it?


	3. Sweet Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long delay. I lost everything on my computer and well, everything sucks. I will be lagging a bit behind but am hoping to update more frequently. By the way, would people prefer shorter chapters with more frequent updates, or longer chapters?  
> Also, I seem beta less. If there's any beta's in the room, and have nothing to do once every month or so... want to raise your hand and volunteer as tribute?  
> All mistakes are mine.

* * *

 

Peeta Mellark wakes up to clamoring, cursing, and a cold bed, confusingly enough.  

 

His mind’s haze lifts, a cloud disappearing as he remembers the night before. His hands reach out to find contact with a sleeping body, but instead he finds cool cotton. After opening one eye, he shoots up looking for only one person. 

 

He should have known. 

 

He should have known better than to hire a prostitute. A momentary weakness, and he stands cursing his own stupidity.  A weak moment and now he has to pay the consequences. So here Peeta is, stiffly getting up to catch her in the kitchen stealing from him. He’s a gullible idiot.

 

He could hear his mothers comments all the way from her Georgia mansion’s front porch. 

 

_Stupid, stupid boy. You deserve this._

 

He should call the cops or hotel security. That’s what he _should_ do, but he knows if he does that, authorities will ask how he knows her and there’s so many ways that could hurt him. 

 

It could get back to his ex-wife. Or worse, it could slander his company’s positive reputation. A scandal with a prostitute is the last thing Mellark’s needs now. 

 

So instead, he’ll catch her. Yes, that’s what he’ll do. He’ll catch Katniss in the act and escort her out himself, in the quietest, easiest way possible. 

 

It’s his mess after all. It was his choice to have her come, to even have her stay the night. This was all, in the end, his choice. He trusted Katniss even though every rational bone in his one time impulsive body told him not to. And now, he’s stuck with the consequences. 

 

Peeta treads to the kitchen on rigid legs and socked feet, but he’s silent, quietly sneaking up on her. Then he finally sees her, thundering through oak cabinets in the makeshift kitchen. She curses as another plate stutters in the cupboard, the everlasting frown on her tanned face as her hand stops its commotion. She pauses for a second, silence taking residence in the room. She remain’s still as if listening for him. Then, when there is no floorboard screech or door slam, she continues to rummage.

 

He watches her move around the kitchen, scowling at the empty contents of the fridge. He should speak up now, but instead he’s mesmerized, frowning at her bare feet. Doesn’t she know how many people walk on these floors? How much fungus lives on the wood?

 

But then he hears her again and he remembers what she’s doing.

 

“What do you think you’re doing?” He asks as venomous as he intended it to sound.

 

His question cuts through the air, even though it’s more of a statement. He knows what she’s doing.. 

 

She turns around violently, knocking a waterford wine glass from the night before off the counter. He ticks his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he takes in the glass on the floor, not because she just broke a hundred and thirty dollar crystal glass. No, he ticks his mouth at her blatant disregard and carelessness for her feet. 

 

But that doesn’t matter. The wealth doesn’t matter. It’s her principle that matters. Katniss is stealing from him, thinking she can pull one over on him. As if he’s crippled or blinded. He’s not. He’s seen women like her before and damn her for taking advantage of what he’s given her.

 

 He’s the one who fucks with people, who gets them to succumb to him. He steals from them, not the other way around. 

 

And yet this girl got the best of him. Katniss hustled him.

 

It’s when she takes a step closer to the counter, away from the shattered glass (and him) that he finally notices her barefoot in a long dress shirt of his and new brunette hair. 

 

Long brunette hair that falls in loose waves past her shoulders, past her chest, and just barely grazes where her nipples are. Nipples that are straining against the confines of his white pin striped shirt.

 

So, he does what any intelligent man would do and looks at her eyes. She appears shocked that he managed to sneak up on her. Stunned by his silent gait. She looks scared, her lips clutched between her white teeth. As her one hand stays dangling at her waste, her other slides behind her back, hiding from him, as if he wouldn’t notice.

 

It’s as if she didn’t hear him the first time, as if she’s pretending she didn’t hear him. 

 

“What do you think you are doing,” he repeats just as heated as before.

 

“I’m so, so sorry Peeta.” Her raspy voice cuts through the air, making him shake his head at her. She’s so good at pretending, at diverting. She’s about to drop to her knees to pick up the glass when Peeta stalks closer to her, like prey. Until he’s right in front of her, grabbing her to keep her from going down to pick up the glass. She struggles against him, a wild look overwhelming her eyes. 

 

“What’s in your hand,” He asks reaching for her fist only for it to skirt further away from him. “What’s in your hand,” he repeats angrily. He gets hold of her clenched fist, her face heatedly staring him down.“If you’re going to steal from me, at least make it something good.” 

 

 

“Let go,” she bites out, fighting against him. “Let go!” 

 

He maintains his hold though, gripping her tighter, probably firmer than he should. “What are you taking? Hmm? Some glasses? A gold ring? Tell me.” Tell him. Katniss, tell him. His mind screams at him, sees red, but her fighting is incessant. It never stops. Until he grabs her hand and pries her fingers open one by one. Until a white paper is revealed. 

 

She throws it at him, hastily, her cheeks filling with the same red he saw through judgmental eyes moments ago. Embarrassment or hatred echoing her features as she flings the measly object at him, revealing a white coffee filter. 

 

A ton of bricks hits him in the chest. Almost, just almost, making him feel remorse. She pushes him back to the counter as she slides down to her knees, angrily picking up large shards of glass. Her movements are rigid, as if jabbing the air.

 

There’s silence, except for her panting breath and the glass scratching against the floor. He doesn’t even remember the last time he’s really apologized. Seriously. For something he did wrong… he doesn’t know when he said it last. Sure he did the casual unnecessary apologizing, but not for an actual mistake. And he doesn’t think now is the time to say it. This doesn’t deserve his apology, there are other things, worse things, he should say it for. But for insinuating a prostitute stealing from him? Not necessary. 

 

So he just gapes at her as she rests on her knees, picking up the wasted crystal. Until her heated voice whisks up to his ears. 

 

“I was going to make you coffee. I thought it would be a nice thank you… For you to wake up to coffee. But my mistake. I’m a hooker. Just a measly fucking thief.” She bites out, crisply cutting words that violently assaults his face. 

 

_I’m sorry._ This is where he should say it. But, she’s on her knees, angrily flinging accusations at him, not even looking in his direction. He should say something, but instead he just stands there, looking down on her, just as he looks down on everyone below him. And there are so many people below him. 

 

“Stand up,” he says, reaching for her shoulders to pull her up when she remains on her haunches.

 

“What? I thought you would be used to people bowing at your feet.” She retorts, staring at him, like he were naked. Like she can see through him, only… there’s nothing to see underneath his cold shell, this is it. This is the new, definitely unimproved Peeta. “Don’t touch me,” she growls as his hands make their way to her shoulders. 

 

He holds his hands up, a white flashing sign of surrender. He needs her to leave, she has to go. She can’t stay here. He realizes now how dangerous he was to actually invite Katniss to stay the night. She could press charges, take his livelihood, cause him to lose his rising business that he has put all 29 years of his life into. 

 

But why does he care? It’s his word, Peeta Mellark’s, against a nobody. 

 

His mind, though, knows the answer. Why does he care? 

 

Because it’s wrong, he was wrong. He hurt her, and for some reason he thinks she carries around the weight of an impenetrable armor, but now he’s cracked it, and that is a novelty for someone like Katniss. That’s why she’s glaring at him, she’s faking, wearing a mask to hide her hurt. 

 

Technically, she deserves to be down there, she dropped the glass. She snuck around deviously, even if it was good intentions. And yet, she’s staring at him… not like a lesser, but like an equal. 

 

“Look,” he speaks, trying to figure out a way to calm her down. She scoffs at him and stands, throwing glass into the sink. He knows what to say. His words are loquacious when he wants them to be. He could intricately weave passion into the most uninspiring statements. And if he could convince a board room to invest millions of dollars in his company, he could convince this prostitute to calm down and leave without pressing assault charges or making a big deal of this. So he prepares a speech in his head, just mentally preparing himself to make her forgive him. “Katniss, I assume the worst in people. Consider it a family trait-” 

 

“Then, you should work on that,” she cuts him off. 

 

He sighs, unsure of how to make this work. And without even thinking about it, his words just fly unguardedly through his chapped lips. “Let me make it up to you. Go shower or something and I’ll order breakfast.” 

 

Wait? Order breakfast? Shower? He was just trying to make her leave, not stay. So why did he ask her to stay? A part of him curses at his daftness, the other prays for her consent. 

 

Getting back on her feet, she levels a glare at him. “No thanks.” 

 

“Please.” 

 

He’s actually pleading. Actually asking her to stay instead of escorting her out like a normal person would. But when has he ever been a typical man? He guesses it was typical to marry Clove, that was a thought with his dick rather than his head. But isn’t this a dick move too? Pleading with her to make her stay. 

 

No, he owes her. He knows he owes her something, some little apology that he refuses to actually utter, and she won’t even let him do this. 

 

He’s always claimed himself to be an observant person. The type of guy who notices small details, like when Katniss claimed her name was Kat. 

 

So, yes. He can understand why she’s shaking her head, she is proud. Very proud. And he just made her feel two inches small. Claiming that she was a thief, thinking that she was a problem before she was an actual person, when she was just making coffee.

 

He was wrong. 

 

And somewhere buried deep down in his brain, he knows his father raised him to be many things, but prejudice wasn’t one. 

 

He runs a hand through his hair again, further disheveling it. “At least breakfast? You don’t have to eat it here, you can take it with you…”

 

“Breakfast?” She asks, as if trying a novelty word on her tongue. 

 

“Breakfast.” 

 

“I’m not really a breakfast kind of girl,” she shrigs. 

 

“Then shower.” She shakes her head, not saying no, but almost like contemplating. He’s got her, he knows he has her. Just say yes, accept his apology. Because the last thing Peeta Mellark needs today is bad luck.

 

“Please.” He looks into her eyes, watching a ray of emotions before she glances down.

 

With a roll of her eyes, she mutters, “Fine, but only because I’m trying to save on my water bill.” 

 

And he feels his heart flutter in his chest.

 

“Fine,” he responds, leading her towards the bathroom. 

 

“And I like toast with strawberry jelly.” She passes him, her very woodsy scent rolling past him in waves, and strolls into the bathroom. He can hear the the water turn on and he smiles to himself, unbelievingly, not even noticing his happiness. 

 

 

**Some of them want to use you.**

* * *

 

Toast. She wants toast, he knows she wants toast. But he’s staring at the menu at the many- many possibilities for breakfast listed. Beans, there’s even beans. Like he’s in England or something. He should order beans, she seems like a beans kind of girl. You know? Like one of those girls who could care less about what she’s eating as long as she’s… eating.

 

But she wants toast.

 

Well, he’ll get her toast. And some French toast, maybe some wheat toast, maybe pancakes. 

 

He ignores his prattling mind, telling him to be practical. Don’t get the prostitute food, give her toast. That’s it, that’s all she needs. And that voice is right.. she doesn’t need bacon and sausage. Toast is just perfectly adequate. But he wants sausage… and bacon… and fuck it, he might as well get beans. 

 

But just as he’s about to pick up the phone and order the food, his cell phone rings. A shrill tone cutting through the air breaking the trance, sending him back to reality. 

 

He already has toast in the fridge. 

 

He makes his way over to his cell and picks it up without even having to see who it is. Only one person ever called him anymore, and it wasn’t his mother or ex-wife. 

 

“Seneca.” He states. 

 

There’s labored breathing over the phone, “Peeta. I have great news.” 

 

Peeta doesn’t respond and instead pulls the toast out of the fridge and walks into his room, pulling clothes out of the closet. 

 

When Seneca doesn’t continue, “What?” 

 

“I received a phone call from Plutarch Havensbee today.” 

 

Plutarch, the snake. Peeta needs him and his money, but he’s elusive and always on Alma Coin’s side rather than Peeta Mellark’s. 

 

“And?”

 

“And… he wants to see you. Tonight,” he practically goads, his voice breaking with obvious excitement, as if he made this deal happen. As if this is his doing, only it isn’t, Peeta made this happen with endless work. “He said, he wants to have dinner. He has a proposition for you about your problem with Alma Coin.” 

 

Peeta grins, and chuckles. “This is fucking great news. You can confirm it at Melisse for two.” He stares at his closet, looking at the blue shirts, until he finds a stormy grey collard button down that grabs his attention. One he hasn’t ever worn, and suddenly has an inclination to wear. 

 

“Well, Plutarch wanted to stress the informality.” Peeta throws the shirt on his bed and pulls out a sleek black tie.

 

“So change the restaurant,” Peeta’s irritation grows again. 

 

He hears a deep stuttering breath over the phone, “No, he wanted to bring his wife with him. And wondered if you would be able to bring a female guest of your own. So I was thinking that I could set you up with a friend of mine who’s in town. She’s really phenomenal… and she’ll put out.” Seneca chuckles, “I know from experience.” 

 

Peeta grimaces. As if he’d touch anything or anyone Seneca touched. He quickly puts on his black slacks and turns around. 

 

The door creaks open to the bathroom before Peeta even registered that the water turned off. A cloud of steam fogs the room, but Peeta can make out Katniss in a towel robe provided by the hotel. She smiles sheepishly at him, using another towel to dry her curly tendrils. 

 

“I don’t need one,” Peeta asserts. 

 

“Sorry,” Katniss mouths. 

 

The word comes so easy to her. _Sorry_. He wishes he could say it so easily. 

 

He hears, rather than registers Seneca’s words. “Look, it’s not a problem Peeta, I’ll just call her and we’ll figure this thing out.”

 

Peeta’s attention breaks from her bare legs, dripping with water, and back to his phone conversation. “I already have one.” 

 

“What? Who?” Seneca asks, almost concerned. 

 

Peeta rolls his eyes, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you at the office in an hour. Don’t be late and confirm the reservation.”

 

“But-”

 

He hangs up the phone and throws it on the bed. 

 

“Sorry,” she apologizes, running around the room gathering her things. “I’ll be out of here in a minute.” 

 

“It’s not a problem,” his eyes following her, frowning at the robe. “Do you know how little hotels actually clean those robes?” 

 

Katniss stops and looks at him, her skimpy outfit from the night before hanging in her hands. “Is this another OCD thing?”

 

“Hotels rarely clean the robes, they tend to just keep them hanging in the closet and only clean them when they wind up on the floor. You’re butt is probably pressed against someone’s right now.” 

 

Katniss laughs, “I think that’s the least of my germ worries.” She drops the offending material, standing unabashedly nude in front of him. She quickly pulls on the clothes smiling deviously at him, as his eyes find purchase on a lovely spot on the far wall. He can’t tell if it’s a spider or just a  blemish on paint.  

 

She finally stands tall and clears her throat, “Well, sir. It has been a lovely time, but I must take my leave.” She playfully drawls, with a smile on her face and clasping her hands in front of her. 

 

“Katniss,” he starts. 

 

“Peeta,” she smirks.

 

“How would you like to spend the rest of the week with me” 

 

“What?” Her smile fades into a scowl. 

 

“Just until this Saturday.”

 

“Huh?” 

 

He smiles crookedly at her, “I need a date for some corporate events I have to attend, and many of them would go smoother if I had a date.” 

 

Her eyebrows furrow, “Why me… I mean,” she starts but catches herself, “Why don’t you just find a real date.” 

 

Self deprivation was not the excuse he expected. 

 

“It’ll be simpler with you. It’ll be a business engagement. I can’t use any emotional distractions this week.” 

 

She threads her fingers through the strands of her hair, before pulling at the tips. A sly smile forms at the corners of her lips, “Really? I mean-” she stops, “It’s gonna cost you.” 

 

“How did I know?” He chuckles through his fake groan, “Ok. Hit me with your best price.” He sits on the edge of the bed, looking at her. 

 

As if buying time, she tucks a piece of long brown hair behind her ear. Then, she stares through her storm-cloud eyes. “Well, It’s a thousand a night, so it would be for four nights and four days?” Peeta confirms with a nod of his head. “Eight thousand.”

 

“Two thousand a day?” 

 

“Girl’s gotta eat.” She repeats the same saying she used from the night before.

 

“I hardly believe you would make eight thousand during a normal week.”

 

Katniss rolls her eyes, “Well yeah, but I can’t run errands that I need to, you’re using my valuable time.” 

 

“Errands that equal two thousand dollars?” Peeta shakes his head, “Five thousand and I’ll have someone run the errands for you.” 

 

“Seven.” 

 

“Fifty-five hundred,” he smiles at her. Oh, this would be too easy. She’s obviously never auctioned prices, and this is something Peeta does for a living. 

 

“Six thousand,” she crosses her arms over her chest. 

 

“Six thousand,” he confirms.

 

“Holy shit!” She yells, then instantly covering her mouth with her hand and laughs heartily.

 

**Some of them want to be used by you**

* * *

 

 

“Here’s my card and the room key.” He says, handing over a black american express card. 

 

“Ohmygod.” She says, chewing the rest of her toast, and holds the black and silver card up to her eyes.  “Is this a black card. Like the ones you have to spend a million dollars a year.”

 

Her bottom molds itself on the kitchen counter as Peeta moves to the mirror on the far side of the wall to probably tell himself how good he looks in that grey shirt.

 

Fucking men. 

 

Sorry. 

 

Fucking privileged, handsome, blonde haired-blue eyed, more-than-likely German, men.

 

“No,” he retorts. 

 

“Oh,” she tries to not express her disappointment. Because, let’s be honest, that is a disappointment. Think of all the damage she can do with that card, think of all the data plans she can buy with that card, not that she’d do it… you know spend that much money. She’d just imagine all the fun she’d have with it. Because, if she’s honest again, she could never actually spend excessive amount of money calmly, she was raised to find fortune in a measly dollar. “Why do I need it again?” 

 

“You need a dress—for tonight.” Peeta explains, adding tonight as an afterthought. He pulls on his grey tie and stares romantically at his own reflection. 

 

Katniss haphazardly tosses the crust of her toast and his card on the marble counter to the left of her. “I have dresses.”

 

Okay, so maybe Madge has dresses. But they’re very nice, bright pink, dresses. Sure, they may have cutouts and beading, but they are dresses. 

 

She jumps off the counter, the draws shaking in her wake, and walks closer to him.

 

“Conservative dresses?” 

 

Never mind. 

 

With skilled fingers, she quickly and deftly braids her hair, “You mean boring dresses.” 

 

“Sophisticated and elegant,” he corrects her, throwing his tie down onto the table. 

 

“Any color preference?” She asks staring at his damn cerulean eyes through the mirror. 

 

He turns around to face her, “I trust you.” 

 

She feels winded, like he subtly pulled the breath from her lungs leaving herself wanting more. He trusts her? And earlier today he ran at her, accused her of stealing from him. But now he trusts her. She wonders if this is his apology, his way of proving this morning was a mistake in his judgement, if he’s actually a good person. She wonders. 

 

“So bright orange it is.” 

 

He smiles at her, “Orange is my favorite color.” 

 

“Ew.” He chuckles, most likely from the face of disgust she pulled, and makes his way towards the door as she deftly pulls her hair into a braid. “What kind of person likes orange? Did you have a Wonka fetish when you were a child.”

 

“Like the sunset,” he describes, “You know, soft pastel like.” 

 

“So it was a Van Gogh fetish?” 

 

He laughs and pulls his black leather briefcase from the iron rack beside the door. His hands clench it’s handle as he get’s ready to walk out the door, and she stares at him still high from the prospects of making six thousand dollars. “I’ll see you tonight.” 

 

“Where are we going?”

 

“Melisse, it’s a French restaurant. Meet me downstairs by the bar at 6:30.” 

 

“6:30. Bar. Got it.” She nods at him, her stomach bubbling with excitement. French, oh boy is she getting fucking steak. Delicious steak. Yummy steak with potatoes. 

 

“See you tonight.” He walks out the door without a further goodbye, the door closing and breaking his silhouette from her view. 

 

“Holy fuck.” She whispers, jumps and runs towards her phone by the bed room. She jumps onto it’s luscious comforter and kicks her feet and arms, screaming into the pillow. 

 

She just made six thousand dollars. Six. Thousand. Dollars. In four fucking days. Who does that? Bill Gates probably doesn't even do that. She’s rich, holy fuck she is so rich. Well not so rich. But she can buy a data plan, pay for rent, give money to Prim for medical school loans. She flops onto the bed and laughs hysterically, her eyes rolling to the back of her bed.  

 

With floundering limbs, she shoots up from the bed and reaches over to her phone. One call just one, that’s all she has to call. The phone rings. 

 

“Mmm, hello?” 

 

“Madge!” Katniss gasps into the phone.

 

“Mmmm.” Madge’s voice is thick with sleep, like syrup. It’s dense and unintelligible, almost making Katniss feel guilty for waking her up. 

 

“Guess where I am.” 

 

“Katniss?” 

 

Katniss rolls her eyes and plays with the edges of her braids. “Guess!”

 

“Don’t tell me that guy was a cop last night and you’re waiting for bail.” 

 

“What? No, I’m at the Beverly Hills Wilshire.” 

 

She can hear the interest in Madge’s voice pick up, “Why the fuck are you there?” 

 

Katniss hears a very deep, masculine groan in the background. “Who’s there?” 

 

She hears a sigh and rustling sheets, “It’s Gale.” 

 

oh. _Oh. “_ Oh. Did I interrupt something?” 

 

“Just my fucking beauty sleep. Why are you in the Hills?” 

 

“Holy shit, that guy last night, in the Martin. Guess what the fuck. He’s like a fucking trillionaire. He had me stay the night. And guess how much he paid me.” 

 

“How much?” 

 

“Guess.” 

 

“Katniss is there a point to this fucking call? Do you not remember because your memory is such shit?” 

 

“A thousand dollars. A thousand fucking dollars Madge. And get this. He wants me to spend the week with him. A fucking week.” Deep down, she knows she probably shouldn’t tell Madge about her big hit, about her client. But holy fuck she just made six thousand dollars. She’s never made six thousand dollars like that in her life. She’s like the fucking Cinderella of hookers right now. A prince, with cash to _buy_ her glass slippers. Jimmy Choo glass slippers. Not that’d she _want_ Jimmy Choo glass slippers, but he could probably buy them.

 

“Are you shitting me?” 

 

“No!” 

 

“Is he a serial killer or something?”

 

Good question. 

 

“No. He’s actually kind of normal.” 

 

“Normal? A guy just dropped a thousand dollars on you. He’s not fucking normal.” Madge laughs at her, and it causes Katniss to giggle, actually giggle into the phone. She’s never giggled before, laughed maybe but giggle? That is just such a high school, rich girl thing to do, poor girls with no income and abusive relatives do not giggle. But here’s Katniss. Giggling. 

 

She hears Gale groaning and a sigh from the phone. “Oh ew. I’ll just hang up. But come to the Wilshire and pick up an envelope. Make sure you say I dropped it off. And use it to pay rent. Got it?” 

 

“Got it. Wilshire- Gale stop. Wilshire, envelope. Katniss Everdeen got it.” 

 

“K. And-“ The line goes dead. Katniss rolls her eyes, almost letting Madge’s behavior get to her, and then she remembers: 

 

Six. Thousand. Dollars. 

 

**Some of them want to abuse you.**

* * *

 

 

 

There are many things that Katniss should worry about. 

 

Number one, she should worry about dressing the part. The conservative part. Worry about the dark blue, maybe maroon, dress she should wear. Because _honestly_ she’s not sure those are her colors. But she needs them or one. She needs a color that screams, I am a southern-belle or I am a daughter of the revolution. I vote republican. I am Barbara Bush.

 

Number two, finding a dress. Because, again being honest, where do you find a cute affordable dress in the near vicinity of the Beverly Hills Wilshire. Case and point, not the Dior dress featured in the lobby.

 

Number three, wearing the dress. Because, last time being honest, there are many problems with dresses. Like the length, or the puffiness, or the chiffon that just makes her sweat bullets. What if she has an allergic reaction to the chiffon?

 

Ok there’s not much she should be worried about. But there’s a pit in her stomach causing a swift aroma of anxiety to waft through her. 

 

Because… honestly… What type of person can drop six thousand dollars. She can’t. She’s pretty sure normal people can’t. Anyone she’s ever met can’t. Even Madge can’t… unless it was a vacation to Disneyland or Paris. Or Disneyland Paris. Katniss is pretty sure no one would spend that money on a hooker, then spend money dressing up that hooker on Rodeo Drive.

 

But then again this is a person who probably shops on Rodeo Drive. Who probably buys his suits, his jeans, his damn briefs on Rodeo Drive. He probably has a personal shopper who spends his cold hard plastic on ridiculously priced clothing and accessories… on Rodeo Drive.

 

And she could never justify that. She’s not the type person to even admire ridiculously priced clothing. She cringes at shoes that cost more than thirty dollars. Women who spend thousands on their feet… well she doesn’t get it. She will never get it. And hell will freeze over before she can ever be justified to spend that kind of money on herself.

 

Thousands was for an education, not for a pair of shoes. 

 

But today was different. Today she can look, she can shop, because it’s for someone else. Not for her, this… this was for her job. Yes, it makes perfect sense that way. 

 

For today, one time only, looking was just fine. Because she was on god damn Rodeo Drive with a black labeled American Express Card burning a hole in her, well Peeta’s, shirt pocket. 

 

So with a normal-paced step, she starts her walk to Rodeo Drive, which took all about three steps outside the hotel. Even the fucking hotel was on Rodeo Drive. For a moment, she just wants to take a deep breath and revel in this adventure, revel in this possibility. Because right now, Katniss Everdeen can be anyone. She might be a CEO or President of some Fortune 500 Company, and not one person on this street would know. Because today Katniss was spending Peeta’s money.

 

And even though the trek is marred with uneven sidewalk stone, there is not one grey cloud in the sky. She knows then that she can handle this. She can get used to this. Mainly because to her left is Dior, with a gorgeous peach bag in the window, and a black suit dress next to it. And from a distance she sees Burberry with a raincoat and shoes, plaid beige bags on shelves. It’s a wonderland. A wonderland of clothing that is almost soothing. 

 

Truthfully, Katniss should be more repulsed. She should hate this street, hate it’s overwhelming stuffy rich smell. She should hate everything around here. And yet, a part of her is consumed with longing. Never in all her life has Katniss felt something like this. She doesn’t need to worry about affording this, or what she needed rather than a dress. In this moment, she’s being paid to do this. It’s insane. 

 

Utterly insane. 

 

Her steps falter though when she passes the numerous places she could get clothing. And while she should want to step in, she needs a reason to. She couldn’t spend a thousand dollars on a dress. That’s disgusting. 

 

So she wanders around this wonderland until she finds something remotely normal and ordinary. BCBG. Yes this would do. Because even from the window she could see a bright red sign. Sale. 

 

She’s not hurting her morals this way, and she’s getting something _conservative_. Perfect. 

 

Only she doesn’t know what dress to get. Should it be floor length and sultry, or short and sweet? She doesn’t know what Peeta wants. What is the right decision. Long, short. White, black. Maybe beige is her color. 

 

She knows she looks like an idiot. There must be a sign pointing to her, telling everyone around her that she’s out of place. Warning she doesn’t know shit. Warning Katniss doesn’t dress in dresses. At least until she sees the dress. 

 

Really, it must be fate, because this blue outfit must have been made for her. It must have been. Because everything about it is perfect. So, she pulls the dress and casually floats to the dressing room. 

 

When she tries it on, it’s honestly perfect. She hasn’t lost her edgy sexy in this dress. Yet Katniss looks like the lady she’s meant to. The high neck covers her, but it’s length shows off her toned legs. 

 

And that’s when she takes in the rest of her appearance. 

 

The mirror reflection doesn’t look like her normally sullen self. She looks content in this, and nothing like the street walker she was minutes before. 

 

Everdeen cleans up well. 

 

So she puts it back on the hanger and walks to the middle of the store. Excited to buy the dress. When she walks to the register two girls are talking cattily, one with brown hair, the other shining blonde. 

 

Both of them turn from their conversation with a sneer on their face. 

 

Then the blonde sneers in a fake and high-pitched voice, “All set?” 

 

Katniss nods, tugging on her braid. She hands the dress over to the blonde’s red pained talons. The girl’s name tag reads Glimmer, and Katniss has to stifle a laugh at her parents stupidity. Or maybe even Glimmer’s stupidity. Who names their kid Glimmer? 

 

The woman methodically folds the dress and tells Katniss the total. 

 

She firmly hands over Peeta’s credit card, and watches the girl’s face as she takes in the card. At first it’s disbelief, then Glimmers face changes a cheshire sneer on her face as she turns over the black American express card. 

 

“So, _Peeta_ , do you have ID on you?” Glimmer sneers at Katniss, knowing already that Katniss does not have ID. 

 

“Does that matter?” Katniss bites back at her, a firm glare in her own eyes. 

 

Glimmer points to the sign behind her. A sign that reads, _ID may be asked for upon request of register clerk_. “You see, _Peeta_ , it’s store policy.” There it is again, her sneer, her gloat. Stressing Peeta’s name as if it’s a joke.

 

Katniss blanches, trying to think of a way out of this. She could tell the truth, and cause Glimmer to call the cops. Or she could come up with a lie and get the card back. The second would work, thank you.

 

“Well, it’s my husband’s card.” 

 

Glimmer laughs, “I’m sure it is. I’ll hold on to this until you find an ID with his name on it.” She puts the card under the cash register. “Will that be all today.” 

 

Katniss turns on her heal without another remark, without a care in the world. 

 

Because… Fuck it. 

 

**Some of them want to be abused.**

* * *

 

Katniss walks back into the Beverly Hills Wilshire, and unlike her first arrival, the decor does nothing to distract her. 

 

Katniss knows what Glimmer saw. 

 

She saw Katniss Everdeen just like the rest of the world saw her. To Glimmer, Katniss was a liar, a cheat and probably stole Peeta’s credit card to get a new dress. She saw the Hollywood Boulevard Katniss. Because even though she was dolled in Peeta’s shirt, it made no difference. It could have been the black stilettos, or the barely there skirt that gave it away. But, Glimmer saw _that_ Katniss. The prostitute Katniss.

 

Not the Katniss who’s struggled, and fought her way from Panem to here. Not the Katniss who has given every shred of her dignity and substance to her sister. And certainly not the Katniss who’s been prodded and broken. She’s given everything, and the only thing left for Katniss to take was her body. So sue her for making money off of the only thing left. She’s damn proud of what she has, even if she hates how she’s gotten it.

 

So she angrily walks back into the hotel, her face etched with profound hate, disdain, and maybe even regret. But the thing is, Katniss doesn’t know if it’s because of Glimmer or herself. And that’s more scary than anything. Because Glimmer is right. Katniss is a prostitute. But she’s more than that. Why should her job be her identity? 

 

She doesn’t know what to do. Peeta will hate her for what’s happened, how she lost his American Express card. For how she fucked everything up. He’ll demand her to replace his card with the money she earned the night before. 

 

Her march to the elevator is intercepted by a man with stringy brown hair. 

 

“Where you off to, sweetheart?” He grumbles, staring knowingly at her. The word sweetheart sarcastically slated on his chapped lips, causing her to frown. 

 

Katniss stares at him, focusing on the festering, boiling hate from earlier and aiming it directly at this man. How dare he. “To my room, handsome.”

 

The man gruffly laughs, “And which room would that be?”

 

Katniss rolls her eyes, “I don’t have to answer you.” 

 

“Actually, you do.” He says, pointing to the tag on his chest. _Haymitch Abernathy, Hotelier_. What the hell is a hotelier? 

 

“Fine. I’m going to the penthouse.” She grits out between clenched teeth.

 

“Sweetheart,” There it is again. That word. causing irritation to prickle against her skin. _Sweatheart._ He continues, “I may not know every single person who stays here, but I know the important ones. Like the person who rents out the most expensive room in the hotel. I happen to know, you are not that person.” 

 

“I’m staying with him. There. That should be good enough.” Katniss begins to push past him, but instead he once again intercepts her walk.

 

“What’s his name then?” He questions, scrutinizing her.

 

“It’s Peeta.” 

 

The man’s eyes bear in to hers, as if waiting for the last name. A last name, Katniss should know. God, it was even on the credit card she held previously in her hand. But did she look at his name. 

 

No. No. 

 

All she cared about was it’s damn blackness. It’s weight in her calloused palm. That’s the only thing she cared about. 

 

She should have looked at his name. Learned the name of the person she was staying with. But no. Nope. Lalala. Look at the pretty black card. 

 

She gets it. She’s a fucking idiot. 

 

“Look, whatever. Don’t let me up there but when I’m not here and Peeta’s looking for me you can answer to him. Because I’m fucking sure he would love to know why I’m missing.” 

 

The man barks a crude laugh, that only causes Katniss to shudder, to breath in deeply and let her eyelids flutter shut. She won’t cry. When she opens them she sees Haymitch staring at her incredulously. 

 

Her eyes flit to behind him, the man from the night before gawks at her over the shoulders. What was his name? Magnificent? Magical? Marvel. 

 

Yes. Marvel. That was it. With his cropped brown hair what a marvel. Pun intended. 

 

“He knows me,” Katniss nods her head towards Marvel, causing Haymitch to turn around. Katniss darts quickly around him, but is stopped by a tight grip on her own wrist. 

 

Haymitch calls the man over with a flick of his fingers, and Marvel trudges slightly over, bags under his eyes, clearly showing he had stayed up all night. 

 

“Did you just get off the night shift, boy?” Haymitch asks gruffly, causing Marvel’s eyebrows to thrust to his forehead. 

 

“Yes, sir.” 

 

“Do you remember this woman,” He questions again, pointing to Katniss, who has her arms crossed across her chest. 

 

Marvel nods, quickly glancing at Katniss, “Yes. She joined Mr. Mellark last night-“

 

“See,” Katniss says, gesturing to the man in front of her. 

 

Mellark. Maybe if she had the time to recognize she would have wondered why it sounded familiar, but instead her thoughts are clustered. 

 

“She joined him back from Hollywood Boulevard, sir.” Marvel whispers, his eyes flickering between Haymitch and Katniss. 

 

What did he say? 

 

“Excuse me?” Katniss states lowly, unable to understand. It’s as if the words were congested in her mind. Like a traffic jam just collided and she couldn’t make out the words. Then her eyes widen as she understands. Hollywood Boulevard. 

 

Because that’s what she is. 

 

Hollywood Boulevard trash. 

 

 “Excuse me!” She takes a step forward, fire in her voice. “How dare you,” she makes a move her hand wound back ready to strike Marvel across his sunken cheeks. 

 

But an arm grips her from behind. “Say that to my damn face!” She yells, and that’s all the incentive Haymitch needs as he practically pulls her away, her hands making repeated contact with his chest.

 

After a minute of struggling, flailing arms Katniss is locked in an office with Haymitch. Her chest heaves with deep breaths in, counts to five, then exhales. The shame from earlier cresting the emotional wave.

 

“Are you fucking kidding me with this bullshit?” She scoffs, and stands as Haymitch makes his way around a desk. “He deserves to be fired.”

 

“And you deserve to have assault charges brought against you. Take a seat,” he points to a chair as he sits in his own. 

 

Katniss thinks better of it, instead she wants to hold her ground, stand tall. But the stern look in Haymitch’s eyes tells her to sit. Tells her to obey. So she does just that, sitting in the significantly smaller chair then the occupied one across from her. 

 

“I don’t deserve that.” 

 

Haymitch laughs, “Oh sweetheart, there’s little in this world anyone actually deserves.” He takes a silver flask from his suit lapel and takes a drink. “Now, you’re Mr. Mellark’s…?” 

 

Katniss swallows and takes a deep breath before nodding her head. She stares strait at him. “Cousin.” 

 

Even she winced at that answer. 

 

“Right, charming.” 

 

“I am.” 

 

“Sweetheart, you have as much charm as a dead slug.” 

 

Katniss shakes her head at him.

 

“Look. I’ve had a real shit day, okay? I was told to go buy a fucking dress. Not just any dress. But a dress Jackie Onassis or Nancy Reagan would wear because that’s what you wear to business dinners. But you know what? That’s harder than it even sounds. Because you can’t just _buy_ a dress. No. No! Because bitches named Glimmer take one look at you and one look at the credit card and she tells you that no. _No_. You can’t buy this dress, unless you have ID on you, _Peeeetaa_. Then they escort you out, and everyone on Rodeo Drive looks at you and judges you. And seriously who names their fucking child Glimmer?” She starts, willing any emotions besides hatred away. 

 

“But then the next thing you know…” Katniss sighs, because this is all just wasted breath on a drunk man. “Whatever. You get it. And I’m really fucking tired. And they didn’t give me back his card and now he’s going to think I stole it, when in reality Demon-Glimmer is probably shopping on Amazon with his black american express card.” 

 

She’s spent. Tired. Just fucking done, and the pain and hate she felt from earlier slowly slips away. It’s in those moments, she feels the tears stinging her cheeks, and she makes a jarring move to hastily wipe the tears from her eyes. 

 

Haymitch stares at her before handing over his flask. “Thanks,” she mumbles, before taking a tentative swig. 

 

“Glimmer?”

 

“Fucking Glimmer.” With a sigh of defeat, she lets her head hang, and takes a keen interest in her fishnet stockings. 

 

She hears, rather than sees Haymitch pick up the phone and start dialing. 

 

She knows, before he even speaks that he’s calling the police. It’s obvious. He already said she deserves it. And she waits patiently as the soft sound of the phone’s rings reach her ears. 

 

But when she hears Haymitch ask for “Mr. Mellark,” instead of a Chief commissioner. Her head snaps up. 

 

Haymitch’s eyes never leave hers. “Mr. Mellark, this is Haymitch Abernathy from-“

 

The rest of the conversation dulls out, because as much as Katniss would love to hang on every word, listen to every syllable, she knows with the way this day is going she’ll be sent packing in ten minutes flat.

 

And there’s another weighted problem on her mind. Mr. Mellark. Why does Mellark sound so familiar. Like a haunting ghost in the back of her mind.

 

Mellark. 

 

“She’s here if you’d like to… Of course.”

 

Mellark. 

 

“You’re Centurion Card is on file… Yes. Have a good day, Mr. Mellark.” 

 

Mellark.

 

“It seems your boy is quite demanding, huh sweetheart.” 

 

Katniss finally focuses on the man, “What?”

 

“Oh, don’t get your fishnets in a twist.” Haymitch says, taking a sip from his perpetually full flask. “Peeta’s taken care of everything, I just have to make a quick call and then I think we can afford to have our driver take you-” 

 

She cuts him off before he can go any farther. Before he can even finish that sentence. 

 

“To where?”

 

“Saks Fifth Avenue.”

 

What? 

 

“What?”

 

**Sweet dreams are made of this.**

* * *

 

 

 

 

You’ll be meeting with Cinna, Haymitch said. 

 

As if she knows who Cinna is. 

 

Because she’s a Cinna kinda girl. Definitely. Cinna is branded right on her forehead, or on her ass. She’s officially Cinna's. Well, at least for the afternoon, technically she’s Peeta. Although technically-technically speaking, no one owns her. Technically…

 

“Are you Katniss?” 

 

Katniss turns around and sees just in front of her the most understated man she’s ever seen in her life. It’s not what she expected him to look like. As her personal shopper, she thought he’d be fashionable in a purple suit, maybe sequins on the jacket’s hemline. But instead the only thing flashy about his black wardrobe is the gold eyeliner that highlights the gold flecks in his eyes. A feat impossible to most women, prostitutes and Katniss included. She wishes she could pull off gold.

 

She nods at him, too nervous to speak. 

 

“I’m Cinna,” the man introduces himself, taking her hands in his soft dark ones, engulfing hers. “It is very nice to meet you,” he says, smiling slightly at her. “So what can I do for you today?” 

 

“I need a dress,” she explains, tugging her hands from his and wringing her fingers together. 

 

Cinna smiles at her, “Yes, but what kind of dress?”

 

“Oh…” Katniss furrows her brow and tries to remember from earlier. “A conservative one. Uhm for a dinner thing with business people” 

 

Cinna nods at her, “As much as I love the word conservative…”

 

“Sophisticated.” She finishes for him, echoing Peeta’s word choice. Whatever Peeta wants. 

 

“Right.” Cinna says, “That sounds a bit boring to me.” For the first time all day Katniss feels at ease, and lets out a breath of air she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. 

 

“That’s what I said,” Katniss finally smiles at him, infected from his grin.

 

“Well,” starts Cinna, “I think we should do something sophisticated _and_ sexy. You’re not afraid of being the center of attention, are you, Katniss?

 

Katniss’ expression answers him without words.

 

It turns out that Cinna is almost like a breath of fresh air. His gentleness, his calmness. For the first time all day she feels safe. Even as he dresses her up and parades her in various outfits. As he pulls her hair and buffers her skin. As he paints her lips, her eyes; even as he gives her undergarments. She’s entirely comfortable through it all. 

 

She doesn’t understand it. She should hate it, and a part of her does. That she’s being changed and manicured into a prop. She should hate the hours and minutes that she wastes in front of the shiny tri-mirror. 

 

But then she’s presented to herself. A finished product under harsh lights and glass.

 

When she sees her reflection, she doesn’t see a Panem prostitute with dangly brown hair and jutting hipbones. No she sees a women, a Southern belle or northern beauty, dressed with wealth and expertise.

 

She’s lovely. 

 

It brings a smile to her face, as she runs her hands along the red silk. Deep red, like fire when it’s closest to a burning log. She feels like she’s ablaze. The red radiates off her skin, glowing. 

 

The fabric stretches from her collarbones to an inch above her knee. The boatneck lines her petite frame, it’s sophisticated. And when she turns around the dress dips in the back, leaving her naked. 

 

It’s sophisticated, and it’s sexy. Just as Cinna promised.

 

She’s beautiful.

 

“Thank you,” Katniss whispers as her eyes meet Cinna’s in the mirror. Her grey eyes shine as the makeup only enhances their color.

 

Cinna just smiles warmly at her, with that infectious smile. “I don’t think they’ll be able to take their eyes off you tonight.” 

  
And just as she was raised with poise, etiquette and grace, “I have no money.”

 

“Mr. Mellark took care of it.” Cinna says gently, and tucks a stray lock of curled hair over her shoulder in the mirror. “He seems like a nice man, Peeta. I spoke to him on the phone just before you got here. He said no orange.” 

 

Katniss stifles a smile, “Yeah, he is.” 

 

Cinna nods, “Just remember to relax, and they’ll love you.” 

 

If only he knew. 

 

**Who am I to disagree?**

* * *

 

 

Katniss wishes she had something to buy the time as she sits in the lobby waiting for Peeta. The velvet couch underneath her can only distract her for so long. She longs for her magazine just so she could read the list of names, just so she could scan her finger over the list, just so sh- 

 

Mellark. 

 

Peeta Mellark. 

 

Her eyes widen. Like… Leavened Mellark. Peeta Mellark. Leavened Mellark. 

 

How did she forget so fast? So quickly. Her memory _is_ turning to shit like Madge always calls her out on. 

 

And of all the times she’s needed her phone to have web. Of all the times she’s needed a computer or tablet. 

 

There’s no way. It’s just a coincidence, she tries to tell herself that Peeta Mellark, the person who bought her, is not a billionaire. He’s just not. There’s no way. It’s not possible. He’s not worth 12.4 billion dollars. Deep breaths, Katniss, deep breaths. She’s not about to go to dinner with a bunch of billionaires. She’s not. She’s not even. She doesn’t even..

 

How does she fold her napkin if she leaves a table? Which fork is the salad fork? 

 

There’s no way. None. Not possible. 

 

No chance in hell they’re related and she will even prove it to her self. No Sir. No relation. Just an odd coincidence. 

 

Fuck it. Even if she doesn’t have a data plan, she’s making an exception.

 

She pulls her cell phone from the pocket of the wrist wallet Cinna gave her. Data roaming charges be damned. She has to know. 

 

She opens Safari on her iPhone and taps _Peeta Mellark_ into google. She bites her non existent hangnails as the web connects. 30 seconds of anxiety goes by before tiny photos and even smaller script loads. She sees blonde hair and blue eyes and chiseled jaws that looks identical to her Peeta. 

 

Peeta Mellark. 

 

Co-Heir to Mellark’s. 

 

She clicks the news tab on google, delightfully ignoring his Forbes page, and an onslaught of articles load about fathers burning in cars and a failing company. About a boy who just may save his father’s company. She goes to open a news article from the Los Angeles Times when a looming shadow crosses over her, and without hesitation, Katniss locks the screen of her phone, making it turn black.

 

She lifts her gaze, automatically finding the blue eyed man she just looked at. 

 

“Hi,” she gets out. 

 

“Ready to go?” He asks, fixing his tie. 

 

Katniss throws her phone in the purse and runs her hands through her hair, probably wrecking the entire look Cinna painstakingly poured over. “Oh! Yeah, Yes — _Yes,_ ” She stutters over her agreement and somehow stumbles to her feet on black stilettos,  wobbling slightly from getting up to fast, from information swirling in her head, from a warm hand on the small of her back. 

 

“Sorry,” she mutters as Peeta pushes her towards the exit. 

 

He never responds. 

 

Peeta escorts her towards the grey limousine. She bites back a snark remark about it, about Aston Martin’s and Lincoln limousine’s because he’s a billionaire. Pocket change for a billionaire. And she’s a no one. She should be respectful, right? He pushes her into the back of the car, pushing. Pushing. Constantly pushing. Why does wealth take away manners?

 

She suddenly feels a bit classist. 

 

Katniss doesn’t understand the point of a limousine for two people. It’s unnecessary, but I guess if he is a billionaire, the last thing Peeta thinks of is necessities. No, he probably  wants for nothing. The leather clings to the back of her hosiery clad thighs. 

 

She touches the leather, wondering how many people more cultured than her have sat next to Peeta Mellark. Probably every person. She’s doesn’t exactly exude elegance or culture. The silence in the car is deafening, it seems infinitely bigger than it already is. Not a word has been said since she sat in the car, and she doesn’t exactly know how not to fidget now. Now that she knows she’s sitting next to a person who’s bank account is about 12.4 billion dollars. Plus inflation. This is ridiculous. 

 

She turns to the left studying Peeta’s profile, trying to see the wealth in his face, as he taps on some electronic device in his palm. He seems sad.

 

Maybe many people haven’t sat next to him at all. Maybe she’s just naive. 

 

Peeta turns to her with furrowed brows. “Are you alright?” He asks, putting his phone in his pocket.

 

“Fine,” she says, finding the leather quite interesting again. 

 

“All you have to do is distract Mrs. Havensbee. There’s nothing to be nervous about.” Peeta explains, checking his watch. His probably expensive watch that could provide food to a family of four for a month. It could probably cover Prim’s tuition for a year.

 

“I’m not nervous,” she scowls, narrowing her eyes on the shiny titanium watch. 

 

Peeta nods, pulling his sleeve over the watch again. “Then why have you gotten so quiet,” he questions. 

 

“I’m not quiet.” Peeta just looks at her, smirking, “I’m not!” 

 

“Fine,” he smiles cheekily at her. 

 

Katniss blows out a puff of air, before turning out her window, engulfed in another awkward silence. She watches the scenery, before Peeta Mellark’s calm and irritating voice cuts through the air again. 

 

“So, someone told you.”

 

Katniss turns her head sharply to him. “Told me what?” 

 

“Who I am,” he states as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

 

Her sister always tells her she is an awful liar. The worst. Katniss can’t even save her life with a white lie. But this isn’t a lie. 

 

“No.” Katniss shakes her head, no one told her… she googled it. Totally different. Peeta stares at her, probably seeing through her. Katniss shrugs, “Why? Have you murdered someone?”

 

Peeta sputters out, “What? No.” 

 

“Are you a serial killer?” 

 

“Is that a serious question?” 

 

She ignores that he didn’t actually answer the question. Reminding herself to find that knife in the room before she goes to bed tonight.

 

Katniss shakes her head, “Are you here to sell me into an underground sex slave ring?” 

 

“These are getting more and more uncomfortable to answer.” 

 

“Well, I’d ask if you were a self-absorbed prick, but I already know you are.” Peeta just stares at her, “I mean who cares if I know you’re Peeta Mellark or not?” 

 

“So you do know who I am,” he responds smugly.

 

Katniss ignores him and instead continues, “It doesn’t matter who you are.” 

 

“So you are nervous.” 

 

“I’m not nervous!” Katniss snaps, turning away from him, not before she sees his smile tug wider. The car starts to slow.

 

“Ah, we’re here.” Peeta says pulling on his clothes before opening the door for her to get out. When she looks up at him, his hand is there to help her get up. Instead she stands on her own and smooth’s out her red dress, watching as Peeta’s hand falls dejectedly to his side.

 

She decides Peeta Mellark is not charming. 

 

 

**I travel the world and the seven seas.**

* * *

 

 

Did Katniss say Peeta Mellark was not charming? Because she takes it back. He can charm. Oh boy can he charm. 

 

The second Peeta and Katniss sit at the table with Plutarch Havensbee and his wife, Peeta’s wit and allure are kicked up four notches. So much so that Mrs. Havensbee seems ready to take her top off for him any second. Even this Plutarch is eating out of Peeta’s palm, his rotund stomach shaking the table with every laugh induced from one of Peeta’s lame jokes. 

 

And Katniss just sits still, drinking red wine. Correction, chugging red wine, with a scowl on her face and shoulders tensed to the tips of her ears. No one has spoken to her, given her attention, or even looked at her. So three glasses down, four to go.

 

She’s like a damn doll, just smiling at the correct times. 

 

To be honest, though, there’s nothing wrong with this. She doesn’t mind. This is easier than trying to make conversation with one Effie Plutarch. So much easier. Because if they talked to her, she’d have to respond, and sound intelligent and whimsical and rich. Katniss is none of those things. 

 

So, she sits and stares until her cheeks hurt from grinning, the waiter has gone and passed with their drinks asking the men if they wanted anything for the table. Peeta didn’t even ask if she wanted something. And seriously, she did want something. She wanted bread or oil or both… preferably. But no. There wasn’t even a crumb on this table. Instead Mr. Rich Mellark ordered two french dishes for them. 

 

Two french words that Katniss has never even heard Madge utter. 

 

And she’s so lost in thought, she doesn’t notice all eyes on the table turn to her, specifically one Mrs. Plutarch. 

 

“Huh?” Katniss grunts, putting the wine glass down. 

 

“I asked where you were from, Katniss,” stated Effie.

 

Katniss takes in Effie’s ridiculous hair piled on her head, casting a towering shadow over the table. “Pennsylvania.” 

 

“Oh, what does your family do?” 

 

Katniss takes a deep breath in, “My father was a coal miner and my mother was a nurse.” 

 

“Oh, that’s so common and sweet. Do they still live there?” 

 

“They’re dead.”

 

Katniss notices a slight frown grow on Effie’s face, before fixing her facade. She probably expected Katniss to be one of them, to ooze wealth and happiness. But Katniss is none of those things. She’s rough, hard and she won’t pretend for anyone at the table. Effie makes an over-dramatical sigh, before reaching her hands out to touch Katniss. 

 

“I am so sorry, my darling.” Effie sighs, searching Katniss’ eyes. 

 

Katniss moves her hand away from Effie’s to reach for the glass of wine again and takes a long sip. She was about to open her mouth, to tell her to not be sorry. These things happen. It’s not a tragedy. She is upset over her parent’s passing, but her father’s was almost ten years ago, her mother’s a few years after. 

 

But Katniss’ relationship with Mrs. Everdeen was strained. Motherly relationships were foreign to Katniss. She doesn’t understand mother’s day. And she sure as hell doesn’t get when people talk about the importance of mother figures in a child’s life. She never had that and she turned out fine. Well as fine as a prostitute could be.

 

Katniss feels a light squeeze on her thigh and sees Peeta’s hand. Her eyes trace their way up to Peeta’s face. She meets his gaze and sees sorrow reflected in them.

 

But instead of Katniss continuing, Plutarch steers the conversation, “I heard of your father’s recent passing, Peeta. My apologies.” 

 

Peeta turns to look at Plutarch. “Thank you Plutarch. It was a shock for sure, but my family’s recovered.” Peeta smiles diplomatically at Plutarch, before removing his hands from Katniss’ leg to take a sip of water. It doesn’t take a social scientist to tell that Peeta’s smile is forced. Mainly because if Katniss knows anything, it’s what a fake smile looks like. 

 

Katniss stands up abruptly, causing Peeta to shoot to his feet with a question in his eyes. “Sorry. I need to use the bath- the ladies room,” she explains, hoping that her smile comes off as sweet rather than awkward, and stalks towards the bathroom on the other side of the room. 

 

The bathroom is dimly lit, and Katniss makes her way to the mirror to look at herself. It’s been so long since Katniss thought of her father. But now’s not the time to think about that. She can’t think about that, about an empty ache in the bottom of the stomach. 

 

She wonders if Peeta was close to his father, or if they were strangers like Katniss and her mother. She bets from the dark look in his eyes that they were close. She can tell, just by the way Peeta’s shoulders tensed at the mention of him. 

 

She looks at her reflection and pulls her hair back, blaming the wine for her crimson cheeks. 

 

When she gets back to the table, a plate is waiting for her. She takes in Peeta’s frown, his dejected behavior and decides no matter who he is. He’s still human. It shouldn’t matter to her, billions or not. And she wants more than anything to make that look go away, because she knows what that feels like.

 

She takes a seat to the left of Peeta. “What is this,” she whispers. 

 

“This,” Peeta starts leaning towards her showing her how to grab the shell off her dish with the silver tongs, “is escargot.” When Katniss looks at him alarmed, he continues. “It’s a French delicacy.” 

 

“It’s not like crickets is it? Because I mean I’ve heard they’re good but one time I had a reaction to eating a bug and well, that’s just not kosher.” 

 

“You’re Jewish?” Peeta asks. 

 

“What? No. It’s just a saying my aunt used to say.” Katniss voice goes up an octave, obviously imitating her aunt, “ _Bugs are just not kosher, Katniss._ But I think that had more to do with the turnips I cooked.”

 

“It’s snails.” Peeta looks mildly concerned. 

 

“As long as it’s not spiders…” Katniss looks at the utensil on her plate, trying to figure out the contraption on her own, pleased at herself when she gets the hang of it.

 

“Do you like Escargot, Katniss?” Plutarch asks eating his beet salad. 

 

“I’ve never had it.” 

 

Effie cuts her lettuce into smaller cubes, “I love French food, but there are just some things that don’t belong in your mouth. I draw the line with Escargot.” 

 

“I’m not picky.” Katniss disagrees, displaying the meat on her fork, “After you have squirrel I guess everything deserves a chance.” 

 

“You’ve had squirrel?” Effie gasps, looking at her wide eyed as Katniss chews the snail. 

 

Katniss covers her mouth as she nods her head. “This is good,” she tells Peeta. 

 

“Why on earth have you had squirrel?” Effie asks. 

 

“It was a long winter.” Katniss deadpans, causing laughter to erupt at the table. Or well laughter from Plutarch and Effie, Peeta is just staring at her with awe in his eyes. Katniss smiles slightly as she takes another bite of snail.

 

“So, Peeta. Tell me about your plans for Mellark.” Plutarch encourages Peeta, wiping his mouth gruffly with a white linen napkin. 

 

It turns out that Peeta ordered dinner for her. Steak. Well 35 day aged filet mignon, because that makes a difference. And if he had ordered anything besides steak, like slug or duck or something, she would have been pissed. She’s even a bit pissed now. What if she wanted the 25 day aged strip? Hmm? She couldn’t get it. Not now. Because Peeta ordered for her. But she held her tongue, especially after Plutarch and Peeta got in a disagreement about “the bottom dollar” and Coin’s involvement. 

 

Whatever that is. Instead, Katniss get’s the exciting task of keeping Effie distracted as Peeta and Plutarch talk numbers. It’s tiresome. Especially when Effie talks about her lovely charity ball that Katniss just _has_ to attend. 

 

_You simply must attend for the children! There’s just no choice in the matter._

 

She now understands why the rich take drugs. Everyone else makes decisions for you, you have to numb the pain someway. 

 

She feels like a house wife. Trapped.

 

It’s not till the end of the evening, when everyone is on their feet, do Peeta and Plutarch come to an agreement.

 

“Look, I can get you a meeting with Coin, but if she doesn’t like your plans, there is nothing I can do. It’s all in your hands Peeta, you have to excite her and meet her approval. Make sure you’re ready.” 

 

“I am ready, Mellark’s is ready for this,” Peeta assures him, shaking his hand firmly. 

 

Plutarch nods at him, “I’ll send you the details.” He then turns to Katniss. “I like you,” he says more to Peeta than to Katnissa before reaching for her hand and pressing his lips to the back of it. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Katniss.”

 

“You too, Mr. Havensbee,” says Katniss forcing a smile to her face, uncomfortable with his proximity. 

 

Effie leans in to hug Katniss and kisses both her cheeks. “Remember what I said about pearls, Katniss. And you must come to the benefit.” 

 

Katniss smiles, “Of course.” 

 

After the two depart, and Katniss and Peeta are in the back of the limousine, her feet hiked up on the seat in front of her, Peeta finally asks. 

 

“What did Effie say about pearls?” 

 

Katniss smiles at him, glancing at him. She can’t wait to see his reaction. “That they’re just pressured pieces of coal.” 

 

And he finally smiles.

 

**Everybody’s looking for something.**

* * *

 

 

When they get back to the hotel room, Peeta surprises her. 

 

They walk through the door, and just as it closes, Peeta presses her against the wooden frame. He lifts her up, trying to find her lips. Instead, Katniss directs him to her neck, her fingers weaving through his blonde locks. But he doesn’t seem to mind.

 

He grasps her, like a life preserver in the ocean, he tears her stocking and fingers her through her underwear, igniting a fire inside her. He bites her neck and kisses up and down her collar bone, causing Katniss to squirm against him. He tells her he can feel her heat between them, through her panties. How he needs to fuck her. Right there. Her face hot, not even in control of the situation. His left hand holds her wrists above her head. 

 

Then his phone rings. He tells her to ignore it, but he thinks better of it and carefully puts her down, before reaching for his cell phone. 

 

He tells Katniss to go in the room and he’ll meet her there. 

 

He never shows up. She goes back for him. Goes once, twice to check on him, but his head is in his hands and his voice is terse with intensity, as he squirms through papers. He tells her to sleep, so she changes into another one of his shirts. She lays in bed for hours, counting the passing seconds. She wants to finish what they started. She actually wants to feel him inside of her. 

 

She wants to know what he feels like, but she shuts those thoughts down immediately. There’s no time or place for her to want him. She shouldn’t want him. He’s a customer, cut and dry.

 

She thinks of home, she thinks of this lavish room. She thinks of Peeta on the phone, or him working. 

 

She finally dozes off, succumbing to a sweeter reality, where someone with ashy blonde hair is next to her, not a cold pillow. 

 

She wakes with a start against her pillows, not knowing the time but hearing soft noises from the kitchen. On bare feet and dressed only in Peeta’s shirt, she makes her way to the main room. And fine, maybe she finds the knife she hid in the side table from the night before and carries it with her behind her back.

 

She finds him in the center of the room, standing in front of the glass wall looking over the city with a canvas perched next to him. Sure strokes of black paint float across the white background, forever changing the canvas. 

 

She steps closer to him, his body cast in both shadows and the moon’s glow. She takes another step, and another. Until she is a mere two feet behind him. She takes in his pale skin and the small freckles that dance across his shoulders. She follows the pattern over his muscular planes. She drinks him in, and that’s when she sees it. A prosthetic piece that meets flesh just below his left knee.  

 

She holds back a gasp, not letting a sound escape. That is, until, the knife in her hand drops to the floor, causing a sharp clatter. 

 

Peeta turns violently around, fire in his eyes as he sees Katniss standing behind him.

* * *

  **Sweet dreams are made of this.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhh, angry Peeta... didn't mean to do that.  
> Come play with me on Tumblr: bottledmichelle.tumblr.com


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